Extraction
by platypus core
Summary: Post movie. 2 years later, the team is reunited to perform their most dangerous job yet for an enemy from the past. Love will flourish, friendship will grow, characters will be tested and a new Extractor will rise or fall to the challenge. with Fischer/OC
1. Prologue

This isn't grade school. She clutches her bishop, her grip slick and loosening- the moisture droplets on her hands separating her from the smooth surface. There's no desperate, heart-wrenching metaphorical sound of her heart ripping, even though she's turning away from him. They had a moment. They had a job.

This is their job. She's no damsel in distress- that ship sailed, long ago, somewhere in-between drawing a maze and driving off a goddamn bridge. _Let me repeat that,_ she thinks to herself, _a goddamn bridge. _Yes, she's aware Yusuf was actually driving, but it takes some balls to fall off a bridge too- never mind that she was asleep for it; she'd spent most of the flight from Paris to Sydney worrying about it.

She's not one to curse, or moan all poetically, but the fact that she's, you know, psychologically died a grand total of four times in the past ten hours, not to mention the incredible pain of jetlag, especially for one in her position, makes her think slight profanity is acceptable. She's blurred around the edges now, softened by her physical limits and weaknesses. But her core has only been strengthened.

_Paradox_, she thinks wryly, only she thinks she means ironically. Because it's not really a paradox. She just can't associate that feeling of…something being off without describing it like it's Penrose stairs. Contradictions, oxymorons- to her, they really are paradoxes now. The phrase has been imbued into her subconscious.

She doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up all over Fischer's entourage. She doesn't know how she's supposed to feel, or how she wants to feel. Well, that's not true either. She's a professional. Her poker face would do both the Forger- an actor, really, only acting implies pretending or faking, and Eames just…_is_, and the Point Man- whose Poker face rivals the very definition of Poker face extremely proud.

Which makes sense because he was the one who warned her she needed one.

There's Cobb, wading through the airport, and she can practically hear a film score accentuating his slow descent from Extractor to Redeemed Hero, Prodigal Son, and Father Returning. In the end, it's always been about him- this struggle has been his. And she can't help but feel partially that no one really cares what happens to the rest of them.

Only the folder in her bag proves otherwise, because only Arthur would be so…Arthur as to provide her with a folder of specific instructions, tips, and words of encouragement. She rubbed a page between her fingers and smiled, because as an Architecture student, she knows her paper, and the crisp heavy creaminess is far more expensive than anything she's ever been able to afford. She stands just outside customs and savors her options like a fine wine or creamy dessert at a fancy restaurant she can now afford.

Paris- she wants to laugh. Because if she was anyone else, her first stop would be somewhere exotic, like Paris only, fuck it, she lives there. And there's the profanity again- it's on the surface; she's using it to detach from her…vulnerability. She wants to sound like Eames, who curses habitually, and Arthur, who she just _knows _has a constant stream in his head. Because after all she's gone through- she should cuss. She should be able to.

She's hallucinating, she realizes, considering she's debating the ethics of cerebral cussing when she should be absorbing the fact that they've just done the impossible- only to run from it like fugitives.

_They are fugitives_, she has to remind herself, and then realize exactly what she's said, and panic. Did she really mean that? Or was it just habit? Because she should have said we, not they, and yet…

It's then she decides to stop thinking so much and just take a cab. Really, there's nothing else to do but take a cab, so she does. It's what a professional would do. And as unconventional as she sometimes got the feeling they were- they were professional.

But were they really unconventional? She knows so little of the dream world. Maybe everyone there was like that.

She tips the cab driver generously; but that's nothing to do with the new fortune she's recently acquired, and everything to do with the same reason she intruded on Cobb's dream. There's a little seed inside her, a little germ of kindness and helpfulness and all that makes her…well…concerned, even over projections she knew were just projections.

Well, she didn't know, or she wouldn't have asked. And then she's surprised Arthur never clarified that point with her. And a little self-shocked she never thought about it until they were halfway through.

Clearly, there's a reason she's not the point man.


	2. Yusuf in Amsterdam

I don't own Inception, but I plan to, someday, because Nolan's really not working on it anymore, and I am.

2 years later-

It feels like a dream.

Yusuf is running- running much faster than he thought he ever could. The crowd protests, a bit, as he dashes through them and weaves his way through the streets. Clearly, the man is in a hurry though, and this is Amsterdam, so they let him pass. He does his best not to look behind him, to stay focused; two steps ahead. But it's hard.

The men are only yards away now, dressed in light crisp suits and apparently much more in shape than he is. His own linen pants, creased, and rumpled shirt (sweet and sour sauce below the left collar, from dinner) and jacket make him appear frumpy and haggard by comparison. If anyone was watching the chase, Yusuf would appear to be the bad guy. Most of the crowd is keeping an eye on the situation- a few try to stand taller to see over the crowd- but most are simply going about their business and speculating why the man is being chased by these two official-looking types.

Yusuf knows he won't be able to shake them- they are _trained _for this, after all, and it's been so long since he's been in the field. He knows he must shake them, and fast, because the others need more time, and he can't believe things are this bad.

He remembers, with a sense of nostalgia almost, the good old days. The warehouse was the opposite of his usual working preferences. His space in Mombasa had been cluttered, eclectic, all dusty bottles and muted warm light. The dinginess had provided an air of mystery, the hiss of the PASIV working below him more natural than the hum of an A.C. unit. And yet, that warehouse in Paris was more than just another dream. It was the gravity of what they were doing- the _progress _of it all. Dream-share was not dead, it was growing, expanding, and evolving. Yusuf's compounds had never been clearer. Science was demanding greater challenges from him, and he felt more than willing to heed the call. They were elitists in the field- experts.

He simply wishes he would have gotten to enjoy a little of the fame and notoriety.

Still, it doesn't hurt to double-check, just in case, and he ducks behind a white van (the license plate is N649C285, but even though he's fast at anagrams he never heard the numbers, so he does not care) and then he's pulling out a lighter from an inner jacket, looking completely shifty and not like Yusuf at all. He flicks it once, twice, to no avail, but on the third it works, and there's a hint of green in the flames and a hint of Boric Acid in the air.

He accepts whatever this seems to mean quietly, because he already knew what was coming, and then the chase is on again, because some stupid busy-body tried to be helpful and pointed out his location. Have these people never seen movies before? You never, ever tell anyone where their quarry is, unless they appear to good guys after the bad guy. Yusuf hasn't watched proper television in years, but even he picked up on that lesson.

There's a corner up ahead, and Yusuf thinks of evasion, and hope, and coincidence, and he's turning, nearly stumbling, approaching the end and ready to turn and slip into a quiet passageway the Cobb had evaded them in Mombasa- he'd told them the story on the rooftop- only he turns, and there's no passageway, only smooth wall, and a dead end, and footsteps at the mouth of the alley.

Yusuf turns around, enough to watch, and puts his hands on his knees, leaning over and valiantly trying to catch his breath. He's already searched around for an escape or, less desirably but still acceptable, some form of a weapon. But he seems to have stumbled into the only completely safe and harmless alleyway in Amsterdam.

"Why…is it…always me?" He asks, but it's rhetorical. Good old Yusuf, the Chemist, accomplishing whatever distraction the team needs. The projection-like men in suits are closing in now. "Killing me won't accomplish anything," He informs them with that serious smile only he has. It's tinged with regret, and a hint of fear now, for the chance of pain here is very, very real and probably very near. "I have nothing to tell anyway."

He grunts in pain- his arm is twisted around behind him and he's been kicked in the kneecaps at least three times. "Why is it always me?" He repeats.

"I know the feeling," A new voice says, and all three pause and look up. There's a man coming around the corner now, adjusting an off-colored suit jacket. Yusuf's never met the man before, but can recognize his horrible taste- his shirt, while not Hawaiian, is pretty close in the grand scheme of collared shirts not to wear with suit jackets. In fact, he looks like the kind of man who doesn't wear suit jackets, but in the profession, it's a necessity, so Yusuf understands.

"Who…the hell…are you?" Yusuf pants. The pain is very real now, his nerves screaming at him inside, but he valiantly fights it off.

"I'm the architect," The man replies, with a hint of pride, and a slight perk in his face, but then it fades. "Well…was the architect," He elaborates, "before Arthur."

Yusuf remembers them talking about the man who sold them out to Saito, and indeed, he can see the resemblance now. Sleazy, cheap, awkward and a bit ashamed of himself, Nash stands before him, pulling something out from behind him. There's a click, and Yusuf realizes it's a gun.

"Shooting me won't help you at all," He says again, feeling the need to remind the newcomer. Nash only smirks.

"I want to know about the job. What did Arthur build?"

"Arthur wasn't the architect," Yusuf corrects, that funny smile on his face now, the one with a tinge of irony but pride in his own work, and a quiet love for his job. He wonders where the rest of the team is, with regret.

"Bullshit." Nash snaps, jiggling the gun in his grasp. He looks so out of place here, in the sunlight, in charge, with a gun- Yusuf's not sure what all is wrong with him. "Cobb can't build. Was it you?"

"I'm simply the Chemist-" Yusuf corrects. And considering they found him in a shop buying components for Somnacin, their critical thinking skills seem to be…thug-like at best.

"Then it had to be Arthur. Unless Cobb can build again?" Nash kicks him in the stomach, and Yusuf doubles over, though he's actually relieved. Ariadne and Eames appear to be safe.

"Cobb didn't even let Ariadne teach him the levels; he couldn't have built without endangering the job. Surely if you did your research correctly at all, you would know that?"

He says it without thinking, barely paying attention; trying to prove a point, gently, because he's learned through experience it's the passive-aggressive ones that really make people mad. But he's really concentrating on the odds of him escaping in time to warn them- before anything more is compromised.

"Ariadne?" Nash asks, cocking the gun and un-locking the safety, and Yusuf realizes what he's said, and who he's implicated, and there's nothing for it but back-tracking, and quickly.

"No!" He says, attempting to sound embarrassed and found out. "It was me- I was the Architect and the Chemist- a simple job like what we did hardly requires any thought…"

"Don't let anyone hear it-"Nash warns the two projections, then bends down to get in Yusuf's line of vision. "Team loyalty never gets you anywhere." He straightens up, meets Yusuf's eyes, and pulls the trigger.

He walks away, out of the alley, into the streets of Amsterdam. A cat watches from the rooftop, still and silent, like the dead body below.


	3. We have a problem

A.N- How do you people end up with stories that get 100's of reviews? It astounds me. Am closer to owning Inception, still not there yet I would also like to warn you, as you may have found out from last chapter, that not everything is as it seems. There be plot twists ahead!

Well, not this chapter. This is more expositionary. You know, the way all heist capers start ;)

Two Days Later-

He knocks on the door calmly, precisely, even though there's a feeling close to panic bubbling in his throat, threatening to spill over like vomit, though he hasn't been sick for years. It's not panic- he's too good at his job, too assured that there are hundreds of explanations, and solutions, and at least seven ways out of this street. Although…he looks up at the levels of window boxes protruding from the nearest building, and recalculates. If they can hold his weight (and he's fairly sure they can, seeing as he's mostly lean muscle and only using them for momentum anyway) he has another potential route. But he's not sure he can make it up over and away once they get into range. Better not to test his luck.

He pounds again, a little harder this time, a little frustration seeping into it now. _He, _of all people should know better. The Italian town is stereotypical enough for him to fake tourism, or scholaristic intentions, but at nine in the morning on a Saturday this could be no friendly meeting. He should know there's someone at the door. He's on the verge of swearing, visualizing himself bursting a blood vessel somewhere in his face as he works his jaw, and still no answer.

Then, the door swings wide open, and he has the smug satisfaction of seeing the shock on his face as he takes in his guest's appearance.

"We have a problem," Arthur says immediately, before Eames can get a word in edge-wise, or slam the door. Indeed, he's about to, Arthur can tell, so he lets his hand shoot out and stop the movement. His strength is enough- the door remains open.

"What…the bloody hell are you doing here?" Eames asks, so shocked by this meeting he can barely force any emotion out. Arthur is about to answer, or to at least ask to get off the street, but Eames stops him.

"This is serious." Arthur growls. Now is not the time for Eames to be…Eames, can't he understand that?

"Yes, well, you have a problem, and that's all very well and good, but I'm having a fantastic morning, so maybe if you come back, say…tonight?...I'll be able to assist you."

"We're leaving. You have ten minutes." Arthur is adamant. Eames gives a rueful, peculiar smile and makes a production of removing his right hand from his trouser pocket, casually glancing at the time and then back into the house. "That…might be a bit difficult," He says, like it's a joke, only Arthur doesn't find it remotely funny.

"Are you coming back darling?" A soft voice coos from the depths of the house. Arthur can tell that it belongs to a woman, is familiar sounding, and definitely coming closer.

"I'll be there in a minute darling, what are you doing?" Eames asks, all pleasantries, meanwhile leaning over to the right, trying to block Arthur from seeing inside the house, as he's leaning as far over to the left as he can, a very Arthurian look of disapproval and confusion written all over his face.

"Leaving," She says coldly, buttoning up her simple white dress shirt on the way out. Her voice is cultured, low, and aesthetically pleasing; her blonde waves of hair strike Arthur as familiar.

Eames is a wise man, and he's particularly good at reading Arthur like a book, so as Lupa passes him, on the way out, he steps aside, enough for Arthur to instinctively move up a step so he's not shut out of the house once the door closes. Arthur balances on the door frame, his heels protruding over the edge, relying only his cat-like reflexes and exceptional balance- honed to perfection- to keep him from stumbling back in an undignified manner.

They both watch Lupa leave and stride purposely down the street, her heels cracking against the pavement like gunfire. Both men try not to wince at the sound.

Arthur feels himself falling inside the house suddenly- Eames has grabbed him by the back of his collar and swung him into the house, glancing around the street carefully before shutting them inside.

"She's real?" Arthur bursts out, sounding angry, even though he's really just surprised.

"Of course she's real- I'm a _Forger, _I forge people, I don't invent them myself."

Arthur brushes past Eames into the bedroom, hardly even glancing at the telltale rumpled bedding. Eames settles against the dresser drawer, holding a glass of something- scotch, perhaps- in his hands. Arthur's not quite sure where it came from. He walks over to Eames' closet and retrieves a carry-on bag; one that looks sturdy and dependable without being to flashy and gaudy. Then he's moving toward the dresser, methodically putting in items he believe Eames will find useful- like his underwear. Eames automatically adjusts, without really knowing he's doing so, falling back in front of his closet and continuing to be deep in thought.

"Why are you here?" He asks after a moment, his shrewd eyes following Arthur across the room. Arthur is down at the bottom drawer, folding dress pants neatly, but he freezes and stands up slowly, reaching in to the breast pocket of his jacket, where he normally keeps his Italian journals. Eames cannot count how many times he's attempted to find the damn thing and set to rest whether or not it's actually Arthur's diary, but he can't quite manage to ever get a hold of it.

But instead of the diary, he pulls out a lighter, small, quiet, unassuming.

"Do you know what this is?" He asks, holding it between his thumb and index finger like it's evidence.

Eames, as a smoker, a smart-ass, and someone thoroughly deprived of one upper class call girl at the moment, literally has to bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from stating the obvious.

He can't quite manage it.

"It's a lighter." He replies flippantly. Arthur's eyes darken, somewhat menacingly, even for Eames, and he crosses over to the closet, pulling out dress shirts and jackets. Eames steps out of his way without noticing he's been displaced yet again, crossing to the bathroom door and leaning against the door jamb.

"It's a totem." Arthur corrects, and then the pieces fall together and Eames has propelled himself off the door to stare at it. "We're going to Paris."

"Meeting up with Yusuf there?" Eames asks carefully; his usual chipper self, but there's something forced about it, as if he's put it up as a guard. Arthur realizes, with approval, he suspects.

"Yusuf's dead. Cobol."

"Cobol?" Eames can only stare. "But my god- that was two years ago, surely they're not…"

"Exactly," Arthur cuts him off. "She won't expect it. She's not prepared."

Until next time, my wonderful readers. And reviews are much appreciated. Up next: reunions and meeting the new extractor ;)


	4. The Place Where Physics Exists

**A/N. Wow! So many hits in one day. Anyway, slowly starting to pick up the pace here…there're a lot of cliffhangers in store for this. Who-hoo! Anyway, in these next two chapters, see if you can spot our new Extractor ;) The stairs stuff is also totally true, by the way, at least according to my research. Writing this also definitely made me crave another viewing of 500 days of Summer. Anyway…**

"…Now I know," Ariadne began, "that none of you really want to cover this, but believe me, when your supervisor is looking over your designs and notices there's no way to get from one level to the next, you will be wishing you'd paid a little more importance to Intro to Architecture. We'll do this quick- I want you guys to have plenty of time to finish this week's homework. So…stairs. Basically, the thing you have to remember is that there are two main types. There's your basic, just straight up and down, nice and simple. Then there's your basic with a landing, usually a bit better choice, depending on where you're putting it and the purpose of the building. It's important to remember why we use landings- they can break falls and free up floor space by allowing the staircase to change direction. So the simple stair- type number one. Simple stairs with landings are either 'L' shaped or 'U' shaped, referring to the amount of degrees the staircase changes direction. Occasionally, you get a landing for pure decoration- think grand staircase, but not often, and not in the types of buildings you'll be designing. Second type- spiral. Unless any of you manage to get a job redesigning warehouses into upscale loft-style apartments, you probably won't need to work with these too much- but they're still really important to know how to do. They save space, look pretty cool, and generally, people like using them. Spiral staircases, however, are actually called helical stairs, because a true spiral staircase cannot mathematically exist and still function as stairs." She made a brief face, but continued to layer the chalk outlines on the blackboard. The steady pounding calmed her some- she really hated mentioning that last part, but it was the truth. "Helical staircases were originally used in castles to disadvantage the enemy that would be coming up the stairs, because the newel of the staircase would leave them unable to swing their swords. As for the rest of it…..read Chapter six in your book for next Tuesday, and draw me a staircase- any kind, with as much detail as you can manage, for ten points. Also- vocab quiz on the parts of a staircase, which frankly, you are all capable enough to learn on your own."

She turned to face the class, her hand thumb and forefinger gripping the smooth chalkiness in her hand. The Tuesday/Thursday section of Intro to Architecture was hardly the worst thing in Ariadne's life, all things considered, even if she did have about six students whose sole purpose in life seemed to be reminding her day in and day out she was only a first year professor, while their parents owned firms all over the world. She sighed, brushed her bangs aside casually, and leaned against Professor Miles' desk (she refused to think of it as her own). One eyebrow raised, with that look on her face- the one that had made men nearly twice her age spill their deepest darkest secrets to her, that had entrusted her with their lives…

It was a challenge to the students, to get a rise out of them, even to just inspire a little bit of class discussion. Something.

Anything. She didn't like having so much time to think of things in her head.

Right on cue, Polo Boy raised his hand, gleaming wide teeth revealed in a cocky smile, clearly directed to the girls three seats over. His haircut was one Ariadne privately referred to as "The Douche-Bag".

"Yes?" She queried, hardly bracing herself for what she knew to be a half-reasoned out comment on whatever she'd just said, designed to remind her his father owned a large consulting firm and she was simply a teacher. She knew it was nothing personal- as far as professors went, most of the student body loved Professor Ariadne- it was simply his upbringing.

_Daddy issues…_she thought ruefully, and the smile must have shown on her face, for Polo Boy looked taken aback. She knew, of course, that he had a name, and she was quite familiar with what it was, but there was a certain delightful feeling to being immature, secretly, even if it was just inside her head. It was something Eames would have done.

She could now think of Eames and Saito and Yusuf with a certain sense of nostalgia barely tinged with any remorse, or regret, or bitterness, but those moments were still few and far between. She had expected as much of course- the instructions had been very clear, only, she'd thought the restrictions would have ended by now. These men had handed her the world on a silver platter but left her no one to eat it with- she smiled at the analogy, it was quite good. Of course, she could have gone on to dream other dreams with other less-skilled teams, but then Miles had drawn her into teaching. He'd reasoned with her about safety, and talent, and the realism- barely twenty-three, with no real experience (the Inception couldn't count, it was supposed to remain a secret.) So she'd stayed, in Paris, so they could find her, and so she could…teach.

She'd expected all of them to leave, truly, and she understood and accepted that, but she'd also believed eventually they'd have to come _back. _

"We don't know how to make staircases," He said bluntly, folding his arms across his chest in a satisfied way. Ariadne pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes momentarily.

"Surely Mr. Trevors you can do something by yourself without help from an adult?" She asked carefully, resisting the urge to open one eye to peek at his reaction. "I said to draw a staircase- not turn in a fully functioning blue print. But if you think that's too hard, Art 101 is down the hall; I'm sure they could help."

There was a collective –but muffled- laugh from around the classroom; Ariadne didn't think Polo Boy was all that popular with the kids either. "I just want to give you a chance to create something. You don't have to know how to get it to stay supported and structurally sound yet."

"You do in the place where physics exists-"Another student piped up. Her eyes flew open, searching the twelfth row for…yep, Mr. I-Sleep-On-My-Textbook-To-Make-Myself-Feel-Good-About-Myself-Because-I'm-LEARNING. Dylan Shounders.

"Yes well, this isn't about physics- this is about pure creation, because that's what Architecture is." Ariadne felt her control slipping, her jacket tightening, and her whole chest contracting. She wanted to sprint up to Miles' office, sensible shoes be damned, and get in a few choice phrases about why she shouldn't have to be here, about what this was doing to her.

_This is why I didn't want to teach them. _

She was tired, and this lesson had already hit too close to home on multiple occasions. Perhaps she'd take a sabbatical next year. Go somewhere harmless, somewhere like…

BWAAAAAAAAM. BWAAAAAAAAAAM. The bell rang. Immediately there was a great rustle as chairs scraped the floor, backpacks were zipped, and notebooks slammed into small air pockets in-between textbooks that would someday double as tombstones. Ariadne resisted the urge to fling herself into her rolling chair and simply groan nonsensically until Miles came in and found her, tea bag still hanging over the side of his chipped #1 Grandpa mug. That damn mug- she swore she was allergic to the thing. Every time she saw it her throat would burn and ache and her ears would mimic the sensation so well she wondered if that was what it felt like to die in an air vacuum.

He would come in, she imagined, peering kindly over his frames, and sip from his tea, waiting patiently for her to inform him of the latest obstacles to preparing for the future. She would kick off her heels and loosen her scarf like a man saved from the noose, before rolling her head in his direction and fixing her eyes on him with just the right amount of pleading, sarcasm, and whimsy. He would smile and sit on the edge of her desk, in the right hand corner where she had no papers, and proceed to tell her a story about a student in class who had rubbed him the wrong way once. She was beginning to realize more often than not he was talking about Cobb, but he never confirmed it, and she was glad.

Just more reminders.

There was a sudden noise- she whirled about, alarmed, thinking wildly of trains, but it was only a boy she privately referred to as Sheepish, holding a page torn from a notebook as if it were a delicate, fragile thing.

"Uhm…I was wondering…" He began, looking…well, Sheepish, timid and unsure. "I drew this during class and I wondered if it counted?"

Even his statements were questions. Ariadne longed to throw him into the dream world with a gun and a pep talk by…Eames…he would come out a changed man.

"May I see it?" She asked gently, making sure to hold the paper as reverently as he did, before lowering her eyes to the page.

It was the airport all over again. A deep fissure-like something opening inside, so suddenly it reminded her of a knife in the gut, twisted in deeply. It took all the considerable strength she had not to let out an audible noise at the very real reminder presented in front of her.

The drawing was in bold pen strokes, and flawless, the triangular staircase containing no conceivable beginning or ending. Penrose stairs, perfectly executed.

Of course, Ariadne had seen Penrose stairs in the past two years (though never complete, actual structures) but there was something in the clean lines and glass and chrome he had clearly fashioned the steps out of that forced the air from her lungs with a whoosh. She handed the paper back to him quickly, vowing to do anything to get the burning sensation in her throat and her ears and her eyes to stop.

"I'm sorry," She said quickly, and lowly, for there were a few students still dawdling about. "But theory isn't covered until the 200 level, and you really should pick a different subject. You need to stick to reality at the moment- as an architect."

"Why does it matter?" Sheepish asked, in genuine confusion.

"Because it won't get you anywhere." Her voice is harsh now, raw and pained, but it's the truth.

"I can…do a spiral instead?"

"Perfect. See you next Tuesday." She tries hard to smile, but she knows it's a grimace, she just wants to sprint out of there and run to her apartment and _die._ How can it be getting worse? She's more hormonal and emotional now than she was two years ago- what the hell happened to her?

Without realizing how she got there, she's at the board, erasing notes, when she hears a sliding noise and soft thwack. It's a notebook, hitting the floor, and she whirls.

"What do you want?" She asks sharply, half-startled, half- remembering Penrose stairs.

"Nothing." The student puts her hands up immediately. "I'm just leaving."


	5. Scare the Dreamer

A/N. Wow! Story got a lot more traffic than my first one! Thank you guys. Anyway, ideas on the new extractor?

She can't reach. To be honest, she's not quite sure how she managed to get there the first time, but she's nothing if not inventive (She's the Architect), so it doesn't quite surprise her. Still, it looks undignified to jump, so she's stuck.

She's not even sure how long she's been trying to get the upper left hand corner of the board clean, but the classroom is now empty except for her, and it's relaxing. She likes it here- the way the windows let in the light

There's a noise at the top of the stairs, and she jumps, eraser back flipping out of her hand in a mad grab for freedom. She fumbles for it but drops it. She sighs, feeling pathetic, and bends over to retrieve it.

"What do you want?" She asks . The annoyance is still fairly obvious, but hopefully the student will chalk that up to the fact she just sent an eraser flying.

"I was wondering about extra credit?"

Ariadne's head flung up so fast she heard vertebrae protest. Eames stood before her, hands in a universal sign of surrender, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Not even a hello then?" He teased. His shirt was salmon-colored, expensive, but rumpled in odd places, like he'd slept in it. She weighed the eraser in her hand, judging the distance between them, wondering whether it'd be worth it.

She dived for the bottom desk drawer (and her totem, and, well, a gun Miles had demanded she purchase, just in case), fumbling with the drawer until she retrieved the golden chess piece. She could clearly remember how she'd gotten there, but the urge to check was so strong, so _compulsive, _it scared her.

"We're clear. Ten minutes," A new, even more familiar voice said, and Ariadne went sprawling after that damn eraser again. She was a grown, independent woman, and she didn't need to be staring after…Arthur…

His name was like a stimulant (I will not use the word kick, I will not use the word kick, I will _not _use the word kick), and suddenly she was angry. Angry at how she couldn't escape from the dream world- they didn't want her in it, but they wouldn't let her be alone and away from it either. She straightened up, eraser firmly in hand, and begun to march toward him, ignoring an amused Eames.

"What are you doing here?" She asked. "You just spent the last two years ig-"

"We don't have time," Arthur's tone was almost…apologetic. "We need you to call in to Miles; tell him you're sick, someone died, anything you can think of. But realistic. Our flight leaves in two hours- we need you to go with Eames and pack."

"Why me?" Eames asked suddenly, just as Ariadne let out a choked laugh.

"I'm not just going to leave my job…my life…everything, to run off because…well, whatever stupid reason you have for dragging me with you."

"I really don't think it should be me-" Eames interjected, but Arthur was too busy meeting Ariadne's furious gaze to respond.

"The job before Fischer was a simple extraction," He said in a low voice, making sure he had her attention now, and even though she wanted to slap him (she'd never understood Mal- or at least the Projection of Mal, as much as she did now) She listened, because he was speaking in that serious, professional voice he used when he needed –with the absolute and utmost importance- for her to listen, and to trust him.

So she did.

"And?" She said, also in a whisper, though her instinctive reaction was a loud "So?" But Arthur wasn't Cobb; and where Cobb needed someone to force him to open up, Arthur needed…well, she didn't know yet, but she sure as hell wasn't about to let them leave right away, especially because he said _job._

"It was an engineering company- Cobol, that hired us, to extract expansion plans from Saito. But when that fell through Saito made us his team. We'd thought-"

"Hang on," Ariadne interrupted, waving her hands to get him to stop. "_Cobol _wanted extraction plans from _Saito_?"

"Why are you saying Cobol like you know who they are?" Eames asked suspiciously, stepping back up the stairs to be closer. "How do you know about Cobol?"

"Well, that's the company Fischer bought…"

"What?" Arthur's head swiveled fast to meet Ariadne's gaze once more. "When did that happen?"

"How don't you know that it was all over the papers two months ago-?"

"I was…places…" The way he'd said it, suddenly shifting his gaze to Eames and back to her, made her suspect he would have told her were it not for the Brit who was not even pretending not to eavesdrop. "As CEO of the company though- this wouldn't affect him. Cobol deals with people like us through security. Off the books. But they only knew about Cobb and I."

"Then why the bloody hell did you drag me into this?" Eames demanded. Arthur held up a hand.

"Two days ago, Yusuf was found dead in Amsterdam. There were signs Cobol left- warnings, designed to scare the dreamer, that they'd left, and a train ticket to Paris beside him."

"Scare the dreamer? But we're awake…right?" When neither of them answered her, only looked…solemn, she tried again. "Right?"

Sorry, but there needs to be at least one cliffhanger in this story and this seems as good a place as any: D


	6. Falling into the Seine

And the epic saga continues!

BWAAAAAM. BWAAAAAAM.

Arthur's mouth opened, like he was trying to form words, only no sound came out. The behavior was so uncharacteristically him that she turned to Eames- alarmed.

"Have you been questioning your grip on reality a lot?" He asked, deadly serious, and she realized with a jolt her innocent question had been interpreted by them as her turning into Cobb…destroyed by grief?

"No- but he said in the dream and I…"

"It means Cobol makes sure the Extractor leaves a mark…not a Mark, Ariadne, but a _mark," _He clarified, seeing her bemused expression. Indeed, she realized her brows were furrowed and her mouth forming a small 'o', and shut it quite hastily, clearing her throat and giving Arthur her most serious listening expression cultivated from Polo Boy. "Some sign they were there- not anything obvious, like a letter or-or- or a number, but something subtle, so that they subconsciously react to it whenever they're reminded of Cobol in real life. The subconscious will make an association between things in dreams and what they perceive in reality, without even meaning too."

"Penrose stairs." Ariadne finished for him, instinctively, even though this was one of those times he probably actually didn't need her to continue. His eyes opened a little but he nodded.

"They know I know the signs, so putting them on Yusuf was clever. They wanted to make us make a move."

"But then we just played into their-"

"No, we haven't. Look, they've been following us since the airport. How hard is it to connect the dots? They see a woman on our flight in first class- they trace that back to the flight in Sydney. From there, they find seat records that put you with us from Sydney back to Paris. They probably know your name by now, how hard is it to run 'Ariadne' through a database and find you?"

"There really can't be too many Ariadne's in France," Eames pointed out. "And we have more of a chance together than separated."

Something in Arthur's eyes moved- she wasn't even sure how she saw it, but she did, and there was a subtle clenching of his jaw, hardly noticeable. It was his one nervous tic, that jaw muscle, one he probably wasn't even aware of. There was something more here, something he wasn't about to tell her. And he was doing his best to hide it, because he knew she would try to figure it out.

She was about to ask about the rather gaping hole in their argument when there was an unmistakable sign of tires squealing. Arthur checked his watch.

"Five minutes," He said, and then suddenly he was reaching forward and grabbing her right arm, pulling her towards him, and Eames was on her left, dragging her slightly, though as not as painfully tense or hormonally charged as Arthur was. She was hurrying along with them, refusing to be dragged like some damsel in distress, and the cogs in her brain were already working.

"If we go straight to the airport-"

"You need clothes."

"I have money, Arthur, we can buy them on the run."

"We're not going somewhere with a mall, Ariadne, we're hiding."

"We don't have time to stop at my place, and besides- they'll probably expect us there. If it buys us time…"

"She's got a point," Eames interrupted. "They'll go to the apartment."

"Exactly. We need them to see she's with us."

"Well what good with that do if they already know she's with us?"

"No, Eames," Arthur sighed, "I'll explain in the car. Let's go."

They started walking _faster, _Ariadne officially on the brink of running now. Eames barreled into Sheepish, his larger more muscular frame bruising into the younger boy's shoulder.

"Sorry," Ariadne called back to him. "Why isn't anyone chasing us yet?"

"Are you complaining?" Arthur asked through gritted teeth.

"No- I just thought…"

"Surprised you'd still want to watch action movies after that," Eames said lightly, and they fell in to tense silence, Arthur opening doors constantly glancing around until she was safely deposited in the back seat. To her surprise, Arthur slid in behind her, throwing the car keys to Eames.

"Drive." He said. "Now look- they'll be at your apartment, and probably the airport too. They'll see you with us; expect you to leave with us."

"Speak a bit louder darling, I can't hear you," Eames said from the front, suspiciously. Arthur leaned even closer to Ariadne; his lips at her ear, whispering instructions.

"At the airport, we'll pretend as long as we can- I'll cause a distraction so you and Eames can 'escape'. Only you're the only one who will get on the plane. They'll assume you're with Eames, who will simply go on the run. They're not sure if Eames is involved- he could just be your boyfriend or something. They'll get me and be satisfied."

"You're just giving yourself up?" She hissed, furious. He didn't have the right to-

He snorted, loudly. "Of course not. I'm just buying you more time."

"So you are?"

"Not directly, no. I'm just giving them an incentive to track me and not you."

"But if you're doing that then why do I have to leave?"

"Because-" He looked at her, and she'd never seen him more serious. "You'll lead them to Miles, who will lead them to…"

"Cobb." She finished, panicking, much too loudly. Arthur clamped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

"What about Cobb?" Eames asked from the front seat. On the surface, his voice was as jovial and polite as ever, but they both knew without a shred of doubt the steely intensity underneath. They were nearly at the apartment now, and her heart was jumping somewhere slightly higher than her mouth. There was a strange taste in her mouth and her whole body was shaking, yet it felt somewhat…well, to be honest with herself, freeing.

She didn't have some stunning epiphany at the moment, but realized yet again, with a flash of clarity amplified by the two men with her, how…normal it felt. To be slightly on the edge of danger but feeling safe and protected by these…professionals, who considered her worth it enough to risk their own lives.

"Here's the plan," Arthur said briskly. "Eames, run interference. Ariadne and I will go to the apartment."

"Arthur, there's no need for interference if they're expecting us."

Arthur leaned forward in the seat, shifting to lean over Ariadne, reaching behind him and pulling out what she clearly recognized was a gun. He gripped it firmly, screwing on a silencer and releasing the safety. He triple-checked that it was loaded and ready before mashing the button on the window. The dark tinted glass slowly disappeared into the frame of the car.

"Any neighbors you're a 100% certain won't be home at the moment?" He asked casually, studying the view.

"You can't shoot that in public Arthur it'll draw attention to-" Eames trailed off as Arthur shook his head, and Ariadne rather felt she'd missed the point.

"I'm not going to shoot it at the same building Eames, I just need a way in while they're distracted with the shot."

"And I'll be?"

"Circling the block, keeping an eye out, doing outrageous attention-drawing things if necessary. Ariadne will go inside, run first perimeter, and then I'll come in and take out whoever they sent."

"Won't they shoot me if they shot Yusuf?" Ariadne looked form one determined face to the other. Eames hesitated, but Arthur just shook his head.

"They needed to send us a sign- Chemists are the most replaceable members of the Team. You're far too valuable, especially if they told us they were coming for you."

"So no matter what, we're screwed," Ariadne summarized. Eames smiled- real this time, she could tell, and chuckled. But Arthur shook his head. He was smiling slightly too- but it was a serious one.

"No. Imagine it's a noose. They're tightening it, but if all three of us strike at the knot, at least one can break through."

"And then we plummet to our deaths in the Seine below, wonderful metaphor Arthur."

The Point Man gave the Forger _the look_, as Ariadne fondly remembered it, before shoving her head down into his lap.

"What?" She asked wildly, her voice muffled.

"Cobol." Eames answered shortly. "I see five- six, Arthur, there's no way you can get that many. I'm going to the airport." He glanced around at traffic before pulling into the lane.

"Eames- no- she has to be prepared, we can't leave her with nothing!"

"Who says anybody's leaving anybody? We go to the airport while they're all here- we'll make it Arthur; we're the professionals."

"Can I move now?" Ariadne groaned. Eames flashed a look behind him and pressed his lips together in a firm line.

"What?" Arthur looked down, realizing what he'd done. "Oh, yeah, sorry about that."

Eames looked dementedly serious and angry right now, glancing at the slight blush on each of the pale faces in the back seat. He turned back around to face the front.

"No, it's fine. You were just doing what needed to be done- I mean, protecting me, not…"

Eames let out something that sounded like a choking noise. Arthur abruptly glanced out the window, shaking his head almost imperceptibly when she shot him a questioning look.

And then she realized the whole time Eames wasn't angry. He was trying not to laugh.

Stupid, I know, but the idea was planted and I couldn't refuse. Anyway don't worry, they are professionals, and adults (sort of- Eames doesn't count) but you have to have a little fun with it yeah? Next up: The airport.

BUUUUAAAAMMMMM. BUUUUUAAAAAMMM.


	7. The Inception Had Taken

For those of you who wanted to see what would happen to Eames/Arthur/ and Ariadne….too bad

"Fischer-Cobol Engineering- The best and brightest in integrity, innovation, and…"

"Thank you Mr. Price, Mr. Fischer appreciates your wonderful display of ass-kissing and bullshitting your way through a presentation."

"Uncle Peter-"The young CEO said warningly, holding up a hand. He turned toward the presenter and smiled politely. "Please, continue."

The man called Peter pressed his lips together in a hard, firm line and rolled his eyes to the heavens. He was older, with gray hair that was turning white and tough, leathery skin, both literally and metaphorically. He glared again at the various other members seated around the board room.

His godson, Robert Fischer, was pressing his fingers together, resting his elbows on the smooth black surface of the table and leaning forward intently. His sculptured face and perfect cheekbones made Browning want to punch something in the face- preferably an old lady or small infant. The young heir had recently disbanded the pride and joy of "Uncle Peter's" life- his father's vast and influential oil conglomerate- a veritable empire, poised on the brink of becoming a super power. And for what- to buy out Cobol Engineering, a second-rate company that was rumored to have ties to the shady underworld for information.

"Fischer-Cobol…" Fischer spun slightly in his chair to look outside at the magnificent city skyline below him. "When the board votes to approve the buy-out next month, I would like to assure you all that Fischer-Cobol will be a very different organization than the one you have worked with previously. It will be a new legacy- one of trust, transparency, and legitimacy. I have created this new conglomerate as separate from the Fischer-Morrow Enterprises- my father's work, not mine, and intend to become a leading name for myself in whatever fields the new Fischer-Cobol will apply itself to."

The room was full of both investors and leading figures in the world of development, along with Uncle Peter. Browning sat at the opposite side of the room.

Halfway down the table, a very stately and professional head of a different corporation was studying the young businessman with an intense stare. He, like the rest of the guests, nodded politely when required to, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Clearly, the Inception had taken; without any sign indicating it had occurred. He knew- since he had, after all, been a victim of it- that Cobol Engineering used Extraction just like any other corporation to get ahead. Yet even they had no suspicions that the mind of their new leader had been susceptible to…outside interests.

Saito smiled calmly and returned his attention to the presentation slides. Things were going perfectly- while Proculus Global quietly and legally bought up all the side corporations Fischer had put on the market.

However, Saito considered himself differently than the Fischer-Morrow conglomerate. He would never be able to get as large as that empire, and he would handle himself differently.

Browning eyed his godson with consternation. Shortly after Maurice's funeral, the boy had announced his plans to dismantle the corporation without so much as consulting him. He'd always seen Robbie's stubbornness, his sense of …doing Maurice proud, but never before had he hated his pigheadedness more. Browning had contributed twice as much to the company as Fischer had- and while he hadn't expected Maurice to hand over control to him personally, he'd expected Robert to maintain the same attitude as before his father's death.

Only…he hadn't. And not only that, but he was watching him carefully, shooting down business proposals, demanding to see records, and delegating responsibilities directly, slowly but surely edging Browning completely out of the company.

Robert stood up from his chair, dismissing the meeting and nodding at several key executives before leaving for his office. Once inside, he loosened his tie and sank into another chair, already reaching for a tumbler of brown liquid. Once drowned, he sighed and slammed his head into the back of the chair. He'd been feeling strange ever since his father's death, slowly growing more and more fixated on the idea of creating something for himself, for making sure that his father would have been proud, and not disappointed.

"Robert," Browning's voice was gruff; unfriendly- Fischer had felt uneasy around him ever since he'd realized what exactly the company meant to him; and how far he would go to retain control of it. "We need to talk about litigation for the Cooperson case-"

"My father's policy was to avoid litigation," Robert reminded him easily, spinning in his chair slightly to look at him closely. As expected, the older man grimaced.

"As you so clearly pointed out to investors just now, you're idea was to create a legacy for yourself, not follow in your father's-"

"-My father was a businessman and CEO of Fischer-Morrow Enterprises, Uncle Peter; he clearly knew how to run a company."

"I've put in far more work than you have, Robert, and if you think I'm going to let you give up the legacy I worked so hard to build-"

"_He _worked so hard to build, Peter," Robert reminded him coldly. "And while you may have become the unofficial leader during his…illness…he has always, _always _intended for me to take control of the company. You work for me now, Peter. And if you don't like it, you know where the door is."

"You wouldn't last a week without me, Robert," Browning snarled. "You have no business skills- you don't know how to play tough. You need someone who can go the extra mile, who can lead you to be the only company that matters."

"I don't want to take over the world, Peter, I just want to be in control of my own life."

"You're father was right to be disappointed in you-" Peter stormed away, slamming the door behind him. Robert, looking younger than usual, sank his face into his hands and rubbed at his eyes until his cheeks were sore.

A/N. Sorry for the delay, I was on a rather addicting website. Only one short chapter left (gasp! What? You say) before we leave the exposition and start the rising action (haha- tricked ya!) Anyway please leave me reviews; I love hearing from y'all

Next up- you'll see


	8. Reality Now

Still wondering where Nash is? And why so many Cobol were at the apartment? And is Yusuf really dead or is it all a dream? Did the top fall? Is Joseph Gordon-Levitt the world's hottest actor.

Fact: One of those pressing questions will be answered right now. Yes. Yes he is. And…since I haven't done one of these in a while- I don't own Inception.

Slight lie- I have it on dvd, my computer, and my ipod.

He won't leave his kids for anything.

Anything.

He doesn't need to dream any more- buildings shooting up like stop-action trees, twisting themselves in never ending spirals. Rectangles and glass and chrome and water everywhere- the sky moves in strange patterns and everything feels so real and yet…not real. There's different light and the space is less dense and there's nothing tying him down but a spinning top. He's forgotten the harshness of Extraction now, and the pain of Limbo- only James' smile as he tugs at a worm, pulling it from the ground.

Phillipa shrieks and dances- it can't be called running, she's too graceful, too much like Mal for that- away from the thing as it wriggles. James giggles and drops it into the earth, telling it goodbye. Cobb straightens up; he's been leaning against the porch post, watching, and steps down calmly, the walk of a poised professional still. He tugs them both close and gathers them into his arms.

This is his reality now.

He won't leave for anything.


	9. Love With Guns

A.N. I lied again. I had to do another chapter. You'll see. Well, you won't. But you will. Eventually.

She chases him through dreams every night, though he can't really call what she does 'chasing'. To her, it's like an art, smooth and sensuous. It's even more terrifying this way- the curve of her collarbone as she shoves the dagger into his abdomen, breathing heavily in his ear. There's a heat- almost a sense of lust to it, yet he senses intuitively it is not for him. The way her eyes pierce his- in reality, eyes don't pierce but here, here they can do anything- he's locked in her gaze and she waits for just the right moment to strike. He knows not to touch but he can't resist; wrapping his arms around her is like trying to hold a waterfall to himself, and yet the result is always the same. A flash of pain, and suddenly he's sitting bolt-right up in bed, panting, slick with sweat and tangled in too many blankets, almost ripping them off the way he peels back the layers.

It's not love- it's primal fear. He knows, when he closes his eyes, he will see her, in all her glory in all her perfection- her imperfection. It's always the same. She will approach, he will not hear. He will be struck by her- how she moves, how she reacts, how she watches and speaks with her eyes. He will wonder why she has come here- what she means, both in reality and to him, but before he can ask she will pull the trigger or flourish the blade, and he will stagger back and awake.

She never speaks. He's stopped trying to catch her.

Sometimes, when he realizes it's just a dream, his security kicks in. They will come, led by _him_, and he will step before her and pin her to a wall, shouting for him to come quick. He thinks maybe she loves him- there's something in the way they react- the way they move with each other, even two opposing forces at war they have a way of fitting together and charging the air around him. He can almost imagine it- her head, there, against his shoulder, his arms wrapping around, yet if they love it is with guns and bullets and shouts and formal wear, or less formal wear, whether in the streets of Paris or the snowy terrain of the Alps; the muted light of hotels or the gray and grit of the cities.

He never dreams of beaches. He almost wishes he could, but he can't.


	10. Too Old

This chapter will be trash. Mainly because I met my real dad last week so I've been more focused on finding out about the family I never knew I had than writing what honestly is a filler chapter.

Yes…you'd better believe it. This is actually just filler.

"Here's the plan;" Arthur said, shifting in his seat to face Ariadne. His gaze was clear and as focused as ever, and Ariadne felt something pass between them- an understanding of some sorts.

"Yes, because your first plan went so well…"

Arthur grudgingly turned his attention from the beautiful architect beside him, her knees almost touching his in the confines of his car, to glare at the Forger. Now was not the time.

"How was I supposed to know they were going to send a full hit team after a professor of Architecture? That's insane, even for Cobol. Even for anyone."

Ariadne huffed. "I could take…one" She amended quickly, noticing the scathing look Arthur gave her, and Eames slight laugh.

"Two," Arthur corrected quietly, throwing her a small smile.

Ariadne had never been the type of girl to swoon to over a classmate, or to throw herself into the arms of any of the fine French boys she saw. Yet there was something in Arthur's slight smile at her that made her feel like maybe for just a second she could have missed out on something, or at least have gotten in a bit of practice.

Instead of smiling back, or reaching out to touch him, or something else that was stupid, she placed a hand on Eames' shoulder and gave it a squeeze, peering through the windshield. The change in conversation was abrupt, but the knowing look Eames shot her through the rearview mirror left no doubt in her mind they all knew why.

Arthur; as a point man, would not have been oblivious to her strange behavior toward him. He would recognize her symptoms and know them for what they were- an immature and unprofessional crush on a man she barely knew.

Yet he did not seem to be pushing her away or anything, so Ariadne was hopeful. Embarrassed. But hopeful.

After all, twenty six wasn't anywhere close to getting to be too old to like someone, right?

"So," Arthur said, breaking the silence, and Ariadne's mind snapped to attention. "They'll be here too then."

"Disguises?" Ariadne suggested half-heartedly. Eames shook his head.

"They're professionals darling- it's a bit too late for that sort of thing. Our best bet is to make a straight run for it- find the most full plane we can and stay with the crowds."

"No." Arthur was firm. "We'd just put innocent people in danger. Our first priority is to get Ariadne out of here safely. They went straight to her for a reason. And we can't just leave her."

"If I go with them- will they kill me?"

Arthur's answer was an emphatic yes. "You can't just turn yourself in," Eames added for good measure. "It doesn't work like that."

"Well we have to do something," Ariadne snapped. "Besides- they're all back at the apartment. Or were, until we took too long talking here."

Arthur sighed and opened the door, dragging her out with him. He kept one hand on the small of her back; ignoring the way she instinctively arched into him. Her eyes were calm, curious, and darting about like any professional's, but Arthur could recognize the subtle gleam in them. She was glad to be back.

He'd always known Ariadne wasn't one to back down in the face of danger, but seeing her thrive on it did odd things to him.

"Ah, Arthur, I see you've gone for the more hands-on approach this time?" Eames remarked pleasantly, looking around the parking lot in sweeps. "Inside, quickly then."

"We're clear, Eames, take her and go."

"We're not leaving you," Ariadne protested, stopping and grabbing at his wrist. "Arthur, _please."_

"Eames'll take care of you, you'll be fine."

Did he not have the decency to even look at her? His eyes were roving everywhere around, never stilling, but never meeting her gaze. She felt a strange mix of adrenaline and sickness.

"I can hold them off just as well as you can, Arthur, if that's what you think this is. She'll clearly feel better going with you."

"I can't," He said briefly, meeting Eames' eyes over her head. She huffed and stormed off into the queue. Cobol was nowhere in sight and he'd come to say goodbye sooner or later, no doubt handing her more directions on how to keep herself safe and then walking out of her life for another two years.

"He can't just leave me again," She hissed, when she felt him come up behind her. Ariadne couldn't help but grimace- as much as she thought of Eames as a friend figure he would tease her incessantly; however at the moment she didn't have any other options. "He could let me come with him. Or at least give me a phone number. Or say goodbye. Something. I mean, I thought after the Fischer job _something _would happen, because he obviously could tell I liked him or he wouldn't have…but whatever, it's fine. We're professionals, we're escaping, we're focusing on our lives and not our coworkers." She squared her shoulders and exhaled loudly- making a show of being determined. She could feel herself reverting back to the days of the Inception job- take-charge; adamant in her beliefs, up for anything and ready to do whatever needed to be required. She hated the fact it would take her time coming back for her to make her feel alive again but at the same time; it was better than nothing.

"And that's another thing…" She hissed. "He's playing with my emotions and how I'm supposed to be able to focus on jobs is beyond me"- Eames made a strangled noise that sounded _very _much like Arthur, but Ariadne was on a roll. "I'm a strong independent woman- I've shot people, been stabbed, _saved _Cobb from his own subconscious, rode about four kicks at once, pitched myself off a building…._in Limbo_, and yet the second I get back to college all of that's gone, and I'm teaching freshman the parts of stairs. And oh, sure, once you come back I'm back to normal but I should have been able to do it myself. I hate this. You shouldn't have come back for me- either of you. You should have just left me for Cobol because I was basically done trying anyway."

"You know that's not true," Arthur's voice said from directly behind her. "You were only perceiving yourself as different because you were meant to be in the dream world business-you would seem different doing anything else by comparison. And you held up remarkably well- most dreamers couldn't have lasted as long as you did, but you made it."

Ariadne had spent about two seconds gaping; before her brain had completely shut down and restarted, letting her listen to Arthur's speech and comprehend it perfectly without having to admit to herself he'd heard her rant.

"You should have come back sooner."

"I was trying to draw them away."

"You could have told me."

"I wasn't sure you cared."

"You're the Point Man, Arthur, how could you not tell?"

"You were in a lot of stress. And you were always with Cobb…"

"Are you implying that I…"

"NO!" Arthur was quick to backpedal. "I just meant…I would think of all people you'd be worried about…"

"You thought I'd be worried about us turning into Cobb and Mal? We're not Arthur. I don't think we could be even if we tried."

"Listen, Ariadne, I certainly respect you, but that kiss really was just to distract the projections- having relationships at all in the dream world is a risk that I- I just can't take. You're an amazing woman but you're just a coworker to me."

She turned away.

There were no tears in her eyes, though she felt rather similar to the first time she'd practiced with the sedative- like she wasn't sure where the rest of her body was. She felt both heavy and detached from what was going on, and it was an odd sensation.

"Fine." She said coolly, shaking out her mane of hair and inching closer to Eames, who was looking between the back of Arthur's head and the side-view of Ariadne's less-than-pleased face with a sort of confusion bordering on disapproval.

And then his gaze shot past them to look at the entrance to the terminal.


	11. The Airport Part I

"Still no sign of them," Eames reported calmly, glancing the other way. "I don't want to jinx anything but…"

"Then don't!" Ariadne said, turning her head in alarm. "Please Eames, I'd feel so much better if you didn't."

"What's Arthur done to you this time love?" He murmured with interest, stepping closer to search her face. "You seem to be in a bit of a mood."

"Nothing," She said lowly, sending a significant glance Eames way- one that simultaneously said "shut up" while also implying she was bearing her troubles with a brave face. Ariadne was a mature, full-grown adult now, but the temptation of giving Eames more ammo was too strong. Arthur could deal with a little veiled criticism now and again.

"I have the tickets," Arthur announced, handing both to Eames and walking away.

"He wants us to follow him," Eames explained to Ariadne, whose expression was switching between mystified and annoyed. "it's a point man's job to go first."

"Yes, well, if I followed all the rules…" She snapped, taking three giant strides to catch up to him. His expression didn't change much- he simply nodded politely and kept walking, though he did slowly maneuver his way nearer to her until their elbows brushed frequently.

She was so busy looking around for their flight she nearly fell when Arthur yanked her back suddenly, Drawing her into himself and hooking one foot under her leg, ready to yank her to the floor and out of harm's way at the first sign of trouble. She caught a fleeting glimpse of Eames attempting to slip back into the crowd before two burly men in suits came from behind him, grabbing him and pulling him forward.

Six suits stood in front of her, all flanking a weasel-like man with slightly dirty hair and a sleazy suit. He smiled in quiet, self-satisfied triumph, though as far as Ariadne could tell he'd done no work.

"Nash." Arthur said under his breath, and Ariadne realized he was communicating with Eames. She clung to the lapels of his jacket, an automatic reaction to the venom in his voice when he used the name. "He's the one who got Yusuf."

"Should we…"

"No, they'll hit Ariadne."

"I can take of myself," She hissed.

"You left your gun in the back seat of my car."

"Why didn't you tell-"

"Did you seriously think I was going to let you walk around carrying a gun? You could hurt someone."

"That _is _the point of guns, Arthur," Eames interjected. Nash stepped forward.

"Arthur. Forger. And…Ariadne." He smiled and carefully pulled her from Arthur's side, holding her at arm's length to examine her. "I didn't think you'd look the way you do. You're…young."

"Let her go, Nash." Arthur's voice was calm, but dangerous. He glared at the architect harshly. Nash simply smiled and drew Ariadne off to the side.

"She's the best architect in the business- I'm not the type to turn down a business deal."

"Business deal?" Ariadne asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. Nash laughed.

"You're the best architect around- it'd be stupid for me not to make sure you were in the right hands."

"She's never worked on a project associated with Cobol, Nash, you can't take it this far." His voice wavered slightly at the end- Ariadne was reminded of the fear in his voice when he'd mentioned Limbo. What was it he had called it…

"We're not on the clock. This is a side project."

…Unconstructed Dream Space. That was it. Ariadne concentrated on the fear she had felt then- the terror of dropping into a place where you could trap yourself- unwittingly dooming yourself to live full lifetimes of loneliness- destroying your identity and everything you had come to believe, even your grasp on reality.

She focused on the fear then, paling the fear she had now. True, Limbo had turned out to be quite easy to survive- once you knew what you were doing, but it wouldn't do to think of it like that- it was feared for a reason, even though she would never get back there she couldn't think of it like that or she might….it was better to remember the fear; only that.

"We're taking you to Headquarters. There's something we need from you before we kill you-" His grip didn't tighten on her, the way she'd assumed it would- he seemed nothing like the typical sleaze mob boss of a villain. He was too…passively-aggressively confident. Even his threats to Arthur seemed to be inadequate when thrown at the Point Man, who merely stood there, watching Ariadne with the calmest, most un-troubled expression she'd ever seen on a human being.

It terrified her much more than anything else- because it meant Arthur was truly worried.


	12. The Airport Part II

I now own the script for Inception…next stop. The rights! Until then, all royalties and fees can be paid to Chris…he's keeping them for me.

Translation: Do I look like the director of Batman trilogy? That'd be a no

Peter Browning got a sick twisted thrill out of this. He'd informed his secretary to schedule him a vacation- when she had protested Robert hadn't yet approved any executive vacations he had fired her on the spot and informed her he owned Robert- asking her to book him two first class plane tickets to Tahiti.

He had gone into the office next day, keeping a low profile and only stopping in to see the staggering amount of damage Fischer-Cobol had taken in his time away –losing money and the chance to press charges left and right- only to see his secretary reinstated and laughing with none other than Robert himself.

He'd left quietly after that, keeping his head down and instructing his chauffeur to "just drive."

Still, this latest troubling development puzzled Browning to end. He'd known Robert for years now- and understood more than most he was an intelligent, charismatic man with a mind and a fighting spirit of his own. Yet he had never question Browning before- preferring to keep out of the way of the business side of things and make his personal mission in life a local on the socialite circuit.

Yet since his father's death; he'd become adamant that he was "his own man"- even though that meant shoving Browning off to the side. It was as if he'd gone out of his mind- mad; surely there had to be some way to take away this idea that was taking hold of him.

Peter stopped dead in the middle of the airport, ignoring the harsh sounds of the American couple behind him, who were outraged at his lack of respect. He dismissed them from his mind at once- surely he, in a custom-made suit, was far more a victim than they. He was a business man, and a busy one at that- he secretly controlled their world through the products his company sold worldwide.

…Robert's company…he corrected himself.

But an idea had come to him- a genius idea that made him pull out his phone on the spot. There was a number programmed into that phone- one he had often dreamed of using; but his only target was their boss, which would make the whole thing pointless….but now; here was his chance.

Cobol Security.

Dialing.


	13. Cobol Security

"Cobol Security speaking," Nash said, holding the phone close to his ear and sending a furtive glance to Arthur, who was intently listening in to the conversation, no longer trying to hide it. Ariadne's palms were sweating again- rather than giving her a momentary rest from panic of their capture and the hasty exit from the airport, it only made her even more panicked. If it was going to end, she wanted it to happen now- not waiting for three weeks while she slowly went insane.

She'd taken psychology courses – she'd heard story after story after story about twisted experiments done to prove how easily one's mind could destroy itself. And these people have the advantage- they're dreamers.

The fact that they're in a limo doesn't seem to bother Arthur, Eames, or the Cobol suits facing them. Eames is jammed behind two, back against the front of the car, knocking against their captors at every bump in the road and glancing out the windows with a sort of silent intensity that he wears well. His eyes say it all- shrewd, calculating, and deadly serious.

Of course, every time there's a bump, she's jostled too; knocking shoulders with Arthur and wanting to ask how they'll be killed, but not doing anything, because the suits keep looking at her and him and smirking.

Nash mumbles something into the phone then- and Arthur perks up, throwing a pointed stare at Eames and then jerking his head in her direction. His eyes meet hers, dark and full of implication. Only she can't tell what he's trying to say, so she takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze even as her expression turns pleading.

He's clearly not willing to say it out loud, however, and simply applies pressure to her grip for a moment before letting go. Eames leans forward, hands on his knees, watching Nash like a hawk. Ariadne's counts to forty two before he finally blinks.

Her two teammates appear to holding a holding a rather long and meaningful conversation using only their eyebrows and small changes in the shape of their mouths. She resolves instantly that next time, she'll be able to do it to, already plotting ways to coerce Arthur into teaching her (though it's mostly for her own entertainment- he'll probably agree before she asks).

Of course, she's well aware she's in danger now- and that could never happen, but it's an automatic reaction. She always thinks of trivial things during times like these. And while she's always calm, cool, and logical outwardly, inside is a much different story.

"You want what?" Nash asks suddenly, whipping his head up to stare at the suit across from him. His eyes are wide.

"It's against the law to break into a person's subconscious, Mr. Browning"-Ariadne can tell she's the only one surprised by this newest development- "We can't do it against our own boss."

He waits. There's a pause in the car- not just a silence, but a legitimate _wait _that makes Ariadne start to feel tingly inside. The whole energy has changed- from the way Eames has straightened up just the tiniest bit to the sudden look Arthur shoots her- just for a moment.

Ariadne recognizes the feeling at the look Arthur gives her. She's had it twice before in her life- once, falling off the side of a building, and the other, kneeling next to the dead body of Robert Fischer, and putting pieces together in her head.

"I don't know of any teams, sir- most people usually hire teams off the record, and I don't…"

Arthur cleared his throat loudly, "We're sitting right next to you, asshole."

Nash slapped him across the face, painfully so, and his head snapped around with a painful noise. Ariadne's fear-filled eyes met his own, and he winced again at the pain on her face. He tried to convey silently that he was fine, but he wasn't sure if she'd gotten the message.

She had.

"That's a thought, darling," Eames said, much quieter, but in a voice that carried. Nash was glaring now, and shaking his head frantically, but the suits seemed unsure of whether to stop them from talking or not. "We _are _the best team in the nation."

Nash covered the phone with his hand. "Shuttup you prick, I could kill you in a second."

"Right." Eames seemed politely incredulous, crossing on leg and leaning back suavely. "Because it sounds like you need a team."

And then they heard the words that changed everything- spoken so loud and angrily even Ariadne could hear them

A.N…So…this chapter sucks, because I didn't know how to transition. Sigh. Anyway I have to read Passage to India part 2 for my junior level class tomorrow (how I got in there as freshman will forever remain one of life's greatest mysteries –like how Arthur _really _got in to dreaming- but I got asked out by a Junior sooo….

Not complaining!

:D

Anyway, please, please, please review this story. I'd love to hear some critiques on what I'm failing at. There will be some more dream-ish chapters, like the one about love and guns, and some more chapters like these (oh, bre, you mean terrible ones? Well yes, yes dear reader, I do!) And action chapters (it's called…a heist) and love, and training a new extractor and bringing in sooo many good plotlines (in my opinion at least)

So yeah! Reviews are love :D


	14. The Best Architect

This is sort of mini-chapters all into one chapter, yeah? Like a chapter within a chapter. O.o

Sorry….I had to.

Anywhoo, thank you for all the support and for reading this. And I'm not even Chris Nolan! (See how I did that there…clever, eh? For two in the morning anyway)

Peter Browning was not stupid, contrary to popular belief. He was gruff, crass, rude and unconventional. But he knew how to get things done- and he knew which buttons to press to do it. One didn't become the right hand man of Fischer-Morrow on "work ethic" and "people skills"- one became the _real _force behind one of the world's leading industries by getting shit done.

"Have a team assembled by tomorrow, or I blow your cover to the National Security. You work for me. Act like it."

He ended the call and smirked slightly. Theoretically, this would now be a working vacation- he could charge it to the company.

Robert Fischer stood in the penthouse suite of his new home- a magnificent skyscraper hosting under one roof the new Fischer-Cobol Corporation. His arms behind his back; he looked out the window in silence; remembering a father who loved him and wondering if he was proud of his son now. He'd never fully believed in the afterlife, being the son of a wealthy business man, but he certainly hoped for a brighter tomorrow in his own life. He adjusted his cufflinks and smiled slightly. Maybe he'd start a charity. Hell, maybe he'd start two.

He thought of Peter Browning, who would try to stop him; urging him instead to recreate the company Browning had been a part of under Maurice. As Maurice had grown weaker and weaker, finally beginning to die, Browning had basically seized control of the corporation while acting under Fischer Sr.'s name. At the time, he'd been too busy with his father to fully comprehend just how used to power his godfather had gotten, but he could see it now.

The Peter Browning Scholarship for Business Ethics had a nice ring to it, Fischer decided with a grin. As did the Peter Browning Charity for Underprivileged Arts Programs.

And they'd thought he didn't have a mind for business.

Nash shut the phone with as much self-righteous anger as he could manage- which wasn't actually very much at all. He was the oily type, who would seek out much stronger and fiercer people, and then stab them in the back but never in their face, or in the company of his enemies. He was weaker than most members of the illegal extraction community- Arthur honestly believed Ariadne could outsmart him in a heartbeat. He had been a decent architect, but never did more than he had to, or flesh out the world like Ariadne _needed _to, before she could feel it was complete. And he never wanted to go into the field unless he had to. He just liked the money.

"New plan." He said, looking straight ahead. His voice was softer now, like he'd been knocked down a few pegs (probably had, Eames thought with a saucy grin) and he refused to make eye contact with anyone. "You'll complete the extraction for me."

"And in return?" Eames asked, almost lazily. Nash smiled, but it wasn't pleasant.

"You live a little longer."

It was the _way _he said it, like he couldn't care less, that gave Ariadne chills. There was nothing threatening about it- except for maybe the fact that it wasn't threatening, but she instinctively shifted closer to Arthur.

"And if we decide not to help you?" Arthur asked calmly, his eyes darting from Ariadne to Eames and back again.

"We don't really need two architects," He said, indifferently, turning his head out the window. Ariadne realized he wasn't evil- he wasn't anything. He honestly didn't care. And that was the most horrifying thing she'd ever seen in her life. The guards both smirked at her.

"I'm the best architect there is." She said firmly. "You don't have me- you'll fail at the job."

"It's true," Eames added for support, though it was quite unnecessary. Nash didn't say anything, just stared out the window.

"We'll need an Extractor." Arthur said after a moment of silence.

"Then get one." Nash replied. "We'll be in contact in three days. Trying to run will make it worse."

"Who's the Mark?" Ariadne asks desperately, as the car slows to a stop and the door is opened for them. Arthur and Eames waste no time in exiting the limo, straightening themselves out and looking haughty and bored in front of the guards.

"Robert Fischer." Nash replies, and the door shuts. The limo drives away, but Ariadne doesn't move.

They were, to put it gently….

….fucked.


	15. Friday

Friday

"Again." Arthur said, throwing up a forearm and deflecting Ariadne's right hook effortlessly. "Harder."

"She's doing fine, Arthur," Eames defended, sitting on the edge of Ariadne's desk and looking bored in a languid, nonchalant sort of way. "She really doesn't even need to learn this."

"You want her to be defenseless against an attacker?" Arthur spat back, grabbing her arm and spinning behind her; twisting it till it was almost painful. Ariadne stomped her foot over his and elbowed him, trying to twist out of the grip, but he simply took a step back and pulled her with him, causing her to fall back against him to avoid crashing to the floor. Her back hit his chest with a satisfying thump, and they panted in unison for a second, chests heaving, his warm breath close to her ear.

Eames brushed his hands together and slipped off the desk, heading for the door. "I'll just leave you two to your foreplay, shall I?"

Ariadne stiffened at this, and Arthur realized her wrist from his grip like he'd been burned. Both glared at Eames as he smiled knowingly at them, then left with an over exaggerated wave of his hands. Arthur gently held Ariadne by the shoulders and stepped back again- pushing her up towards her normal posture at the same time. She spun to face him.

"He was kidding," Arthur said automatically, then turned and glared toward the door as if it was responsible (it wasn't). "Ignore him."

"I know, Arthur," She snapped at him, and he was surprised to see she was shaking. "I _have _worked with you two before, you know. Or did you just forget?"

"Why are you mad at me?" He asked gently. She didn't answer, just took a step back and swung her arm into a fist.

"Again." She demanded. Arthur sighed, rolled his eyes to the heavens, and slicked back his hair.

"Ariadne I-"

"_Again_"

"Miles has class in here in an hour and a half, we need to clear out." Arthur knows better than anyone Ariadne has gone into full battle mode, and won't take no for an answer, so his best option is to placate her. "I have to go to the warehouse owner and see if I can get another lease- do you want to come?"

"Why are you assuming I want to go anywhere with you when-"

"You were fine ten minutes ago."

"You weren't seducing me ten minutes ago."

"So you're believing Eames over me?"

"How should I know? I don't know anything about you, and then you come in, change my life, leave again, and then when you come back I find out I'm on an inescapable hit list. And then you sign me up for another job."

"They would have killed you."

"They still are. Maybe I wanted to get it over with."

"Well maybe I had a plan to get you out of it."

"Did you?" She asks shrewdly, finally dropping the fighting stance and crossing her arms like a petulant child. Arthur hesitates. He's never lied to Ariadne before, but in this case, it might be necessary.

"No, I didn't," He admits, shoving his hands in his pocket and sliding her a sidelong gaze to see if she's buying it. "I'm trying, though."

Her gaze softens, just a bit, but it's not weakening. He realizes she's tired, probably has been, and he thinks –with guilt- no one thought to check up on her; see if she slept okay. She's been holding herself up on sheer will alone, and he's forced her to fight, and then enraged her for some offense he's still not a hundred percent sure she's mad about. Using all the point man skills he has, as well as his impressive resume with the psychological tendencies of the human mind; he's come up with several possible excuses for her behavior. So as Eames comes back in and she stomps over to yell at him for various things he hasn't done but that make her feel better about herself, Arthur pulls out his notebook, sits down on a chair and uses his feet to push off slightly. The two front legs come up off the floor just enough, and Arthur balances with a self-impressed smirk. He's too far away for Eames to kick him 'this, Ariadne, is a kick', and she was not amused, then, at least. He clicks his pen a couple of times, loosens his tie, and begins to scribble.

She blames herself. Evidence: anger at nothing, appears self-generated. Shakes head, appears deep in thought. Quieter. When smiles or blushes then becomes angry (forgot to be mad or mad about forgetting unknown). Theory: She's mad that she's not as mad as us as she was when we were gone. Missed us. (Me, specifically- evidence based, not personal)

Mad at self. Evidence: Comments about feeling different, happiness at being back, attitude when first met. ("what do you want?" angry, frustrated tone) Theory: Feels inadequate at activities outside of dream world. Feels inadequate for feeling inadequate.

Hates me. Evidence: behavior is often rude, angry, frustrating, wounding, impossible, difficult-to-work with. Sensitive. Finds excuses to be mad. Glares at me. Physical attraction while fighting (evidence-based, pupils contract, change in heart rate, different breathing. Feedback from my personal behavior likely) Theory: Has physical attraction towards me but identifies me as root of problems. I make her feel lack of control toward her actions. Often come across as unfeeling and uncaring. Leads to anger, keeps locked up in attempt to be professional, can't quite keep it like that.

Likes me. Evidence: Blushes. Smiles. Gets mad often. Physical attraction during fight. Implied she did at airport (thought I was Eames- circumstantial evidence and does not actually count) Kiss in dream…2 years ago. Was mad for leaving. Possibly due to romantic feelings. Theory: Plausible.

"What notes could you possibly be taking now?" Eames drawls, and Arthur looks up to see Eames at the blackboard, looking confused, and Ariadne five feet from him on the floor, her arms crossed and looking at him with a much softer expression than even she realizes she has. She clears her throat, turns away for a second, and then whirls back, her face now disgruntled- exactly what he expects from her at the moment.

"Brainstorming," He invents, wildly. "Eames, take Ariadne home. I'm going to get another lease for the warehouse- if we're lucky, it'll be available, if not, I'll see what I can do. Then I'll need you to meet me at the warehouse, see if we left anything behind. The PASIV is either in my luggage at the airport or with Nash- we'll need to go under to practice, memorize the layers, train Ariadne. Ariadne- I need you to try to sleep tonight; tomorrow we start. You'll need two mazes for the project."

"I'm coming with you to the lease-"Ariadne says, firmly, not even daring him to argue. "You don't know French."

"I do t-"he stops. "How did you know that?"

"We used to work together," She reminds him flatly. "In France. I'm not oblivious."

"I never said you were. I-"

"Look children, if we're going to do this –again- the two of you might as well get over whatever little quarrel you're having. Ariadne- the last job you took was an exception to the general rule; you need to be more focused and professional, and listen to us when we tell you what to do. And Arthur- what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Arthur and Ariadne stare at each other for a long moment; neither moving. And then Ariadne's whole stern façade just drops. "I'm sorry," She says, turning to Eames. "I've been extremely unprofessional and immature. It's my fault. I'll stop."

Arthur sighs. Her intentions are obvious- as a team, all is well. But for Arthur- things may never be the same as before, when it was just them in the warehouse, having intelligent conversations about a job they both loved.

**A.N. Finally remembered to bold my author's notes…I'm a genius, aren't I? This story is going to be quite long- I should warn you. I'm writing it as I go, in the sense that chapters aren't already written out, but in the planning stages I'm at about the fourth story in the series. Oh yes, I'm one of **_**those **_**people. Anyway, I'm off to dinner with my ex-boyfriend tonight, but I'll probably update once more this evening, because I REALLY want to get to Monday's chapter already. I'd love to hear reviews because I really do want to hear from you all about what you think of it- anything. Also, thoughts on who the extractor is? Guesses to where this is going? How does Cobb come in? And Saito? Who's the real bad guy?**


	16. Saturday

**A.N I am SO SORRY for not updating sooner- I've been sick and feeling, well, how people feel when sick. Still, I don't even remember the last time I updated.**

**Also, I finally saw the batman movies, and since we're all Chris Nolan fans I have to say those are some of the best films ever. And Bruce Wayne….second hottest Nolan character ever. **

Saturday

"We don't have a choice, Ariadne."

"Yes we do! We don't have to do what you're suggesting. At all."

"You've done one job; forgive me for pointing out you have no idea what we need or not."

"Yes but we'll be committing murder."

"Eames," Arthur warned, shaking his head when the Forger tried to retort. The architect was looking murderous and determined to get what she wanted, an expression Arthur couldn't help but find endearing.

"See-" Ariadne said triumphantly, turning to Eames with an expression of smug satisfaction Eames had only seen on her when they'd been testing her designs in practice runs. "Arthur agrees."

"Actually, I don't." Arthur said calmly, scratching out something in his notebook and shooting her a calculating look. "But we need to stay on topic."

"How can you say that?" She looked horrified, an expression Arthur had almost never seen on her face; yet he knew better than to try to make it disappear. These were the facts, and trying to protect her from the harsher realities would be counter-productive. Arthur was a man of fact, and detail. And while Yusuf's death had been a bit of a surprise to him, he seriously doubted Nash would kill all of them. His plan was to perform the Extraction and use the success as leverage to at least get Ariadne out- he knew she would be most likely to be killed off by Nash, but with literally no criminal record or criminal tendencies, as well as an active life outside of the dream world, her death would be much different than that of say, Eames'. People would miss her. There would be investigations.

He planned on making Nash see her death could expose the entire dream world. While it wasn't quite true, Arthur could conceivably sell him on this point, long enough to at least get her into protective custody.

"Because it's the truth. My job is to find simple solutions to our problems. And this is the simplest, most logical choice to make. We need an Extractor. Eames can't forge and cover me, and you're simply not Extractor material. You can't cover for me either, seeing as you've never shot anyone, and I'm honestly more of a point man than an extractor. We need a fourth member."

Ariadne _has _shot someone, Mal, but she doesn't want to bring that up- it was so long ago, and such a private thing- it felt indecent to reveal it to the world. The final confrontation between Cobb and the projection of his dead wife was between just them, she felt.

"Yes, but you guys must have worked with other teams. Can't you contact one of them? I'm not going to endanger an innocent life! What Miles and Cobb did to me was bad enough- we should have learned our lesson from that. We can't do it to someone else. _I _can't do that to someone else."

"Aren't you being a little hypocritical, darling?" Eames asked, dropping his nonchalant expression and leaning forward. "There's nothing like the thrill of the dream world. The chance to explore and do things no one else can find possible. There's an amount of control not offered in the real world.

"Besides," Arthur stood up from his chair and stepped closer to Ariadne, "Nash and Cobol won't have an argument against a college student on their first job- destroying them would be a liability, at the most they would work for Cobol afterward, but they wouldn't be in physical danger."

"You can't know that, Arthur," Eames disputed. "They might kill them to keep them quiet."

"That would be counter-productive. Besides, Cobol security takes care of law-breakers, not company employers. If we bring in a real extractor, they _will _get killed. A college student has a chance."

"We can't risk a life like this."

"I hate to ruin your delusions of who we are as people, dear, but we're criminals. Rather elite, semi-moralistic, in your eyes, yes. But criminals nevertheless. In the one job you worked with us, I'm sure you perceived it as sort of a 'mercy mission', protecting the world from one company domination or whatever. But in reality, Saito's main competition needed to be taken care of. That's what we do. It's illegal."

"Yes, but we don't have to corrupt another college student to do that."

"I don't really get what you mean by 'another', seeing as we clearly made no headway corrupting you. Although I honestly did expect Arthur to give it a shot…"

"Eames." Arthur's no-nonsense professionalism attitude disappeared for a second- he ran a hand through his slicked-back hair in pure frustration. "I'm going to pretend your comments are from an attempt to lighten the mood. And Ariadne- honestly, I highly doubt they'll be corrupted."

Ariadne knew that wasn't true. Because she would do almost anything- _anything_- to enter the dream world again. And that was after an experience like Fischer's. A young student without going through the terror and insanity of that case would be easily swayed and persuaded. She could not do that to another human being.

She would not.

"Your quest to protect your students is admirable, Ariadne, but you have to realize we're not taking no for an answer. If you won't find one, I'll have Eames. And he won't mention the problems or dangers. It's your choice."

Arthur had vowed to keep the mind games to a minimum when dealing with his much younger Architect. He had seen teams –good teams, even- kept together through manipulation and hidden agendas and inter-team alliances. Yet now was the time.

Eames, wisely, made no comment. Because the truth was, he would have mentioned the dangers. But there was no way Ariadne would be sure enough of that point to risk it.

The real truth was Arthur would never let Eames recruit anyone, and Ariadne realized this immediately. But then she realized this was Arthur's way of putting her in charge; giving her the power to protect their young Extractor from the dangers of the dream world. She wasn't charming and persuasive like Eames, or dashing and glamorous like Arthur. She was a simple teacher. It was up to her to convince the Extractor the majority of dreamers were like Nash- conniving, in for the money type people, as opposed to the brilliant team she was a part of.

"Fine. But I'm going under with them while they're training. I could use the practice." She picked up her bag and headed for the door. "I'm not coming in tomorrow."

"She doesn't trust us," Eames said regretfully, turning to Arthur. Arthur made an approximation of a smile- his lips a very thin line, but quirked never the less.

"Let's hope she doesn't." He said in response. "You can take tomorrow off; I'll just be setting up the Warehouse. Cobol will probably contact me tomorrow- lay low, if you can."

Eames understood him perfectly.


	17. Sunday

**A.N Checked the story traffic online and was horrified. Apparently, the first chapter is god awful. D: And then the numbers drop like flies from there. I APOLOGIZE FOR SUCKING. And this is not sarcasm, really. I truly am sorry if I ruined Inception for anyone. I'm just doing this because I love the characters and stuff.**

**That being said, really guys, I need some reviews (and that's when it happens- the idealistic young writer turns into an attention-seeking narcissistic person with unreasonable demands (is this tap water! I wanted ICE WATER! ICE WATER)) because seriously, I can't tell if you like it or not, or where you want it to go, or just anything about it. I will even take non life-threatening flames at this point if only to ensure myself there are still living beings out on fan fiction, and it's not just me and my Build-a-bear Owl Hedwig (1. I Am Legend reference, only with the internet and owls . 2. HECK YES I HAVE AN OWL NAMED HEDWIG! You don't? Sad face for you!)**

**Anyway, after seeing Mark Zuckerberg on SNL, I'm in love. Sad day for me, really, seeing as he's unobtainable. And for the math on this, I guessed. I worked with the idea without sedation levels remained roughly on the same time proportion, because Yusuf said the sedative compounded the effect, so no sedative, no compounding effect. Reasonable? Well, just go with it.**

Sunday

She lasts an hour.

Counting the walk

And stopping to buy them breakfast, because she all but sprints during the walk.

The walk to the warehouse is as familiar as it is disturbingly new; there's something about the bright glare of the sunlight in her eyes that hurts her as much as it invigorates her. Several native inhabitants turn to shoot her slightly offended glares; the streets of Paris are not to be rushed through on a glorious Sunday morning, but savored, as they are doing. Only she pays them no heed but continues to pick up her pace, the tension mounting until she begins to worry she's worrying it will have disappeared when she gets there, and she will hear a distant alarm and wake up and not have seen them again…

…_and not be in danger of being dead_, she reminds herself. And just like that, the hurried pace is gone, the fear of searching for something but not finding it is gone, and she can breathe again.

Of course, Ariadne could never be said to float or glide, but her perky step and determined gait were as impressive to Arthur as the graceful dance Mal had done. Mal had clung to her sensuousness like it was a dress; whereas Ariadne wore her courage and reliability like a…like a…Arthur's imagination failed. _Like a scarf,_ he thought to himself ruefully, dragging another faded lawn chair into the semi-circle. Only that seemed to fit perfectly, actually. Ariadne had had a thing for wearing bright, colorful scarves, a look she had apparently forgone, along with the red jacket and skinny jeans, when Arthur had seen her the past two days.

An idea slowly settled into his mind. Arthur had contacts everywhere, including the owner of prestigious 'invite only' boutique. The man dealt exclusively with the softest and most exotic fabrics he could lay hands on. Products that Arthur knew for a fact included professional and expensive looking scarves. And while he wasn't the type to buy affection; he certainly was the type to get Ariadne to wear a scarf again.

"Hey," She said softly, and he turned, smiling pleasantly. He had heard her come in, the soft slap of the soles of her shoes, but kept his eyes trained on the PASIV. With Ariadne, it was always only a matter of time. He had seen it with dreaming, he had seen it with Cobb, and he had started to see it with Eames and himself. It was her nature. And while it was rather unconventional for their profession; it was an incredible asset to the team and to himself.

"Shall we take a look at some paradoxical architecture?" He asked lightly, unrolling two cords from the device. She smiled- not the mischievous full-on smirk he'd grown accustomed to when she'd thoroughly impress him and knew it, but a soft, gentle smile.

"Do you use that on all the girls, Arthur?" She asked, with a smile and the flash of wry humor the team had missed. Arthur smiled back at her, trying to take the small olive branch she was extending.

"Only the talented ones," He remarked, a glint in his eyes and the smirk still playing about his face. He quickly and efficiently rolled up his shirt sleeves and turned toward Ariadne, expecting to help her into a chair (with her consent, of course), and then remove her needle as he did whenever he got the chance to. But to his surprise she shook her head.

"I can do it by myself, you know," She reminded him, eyeing the offending needle with distaste. "I forgot how much I disliked this part."

"I'll mark 'heroin addict' off your list of favorite pastimes then," Arthur replied, sitting down on the edge of the chair and resting his forearms on his knees. Ariadne slid into the space between the two chairs, her knees slightly brushing his dangling hands, and Arthur felt a sudden urge to reach for her waist and rub smooth circles into her sides while he felt her squirm as his hot breath fanned her stomach…

He shot back from his fantasy with a gasp, honestly surprised he'd heard no plaintive sounds of _Non, je ne regretten…_ The sudden and unexpected appearance of his daydream startled him. He'd never had a situation like this occur during a job.

"Arthur?" She asked, less cautiously than before, returning to the take-no-prisoners Ariadne who made souls quiver in her quest for knowledge. He shook his head, clearly it. "I'm fine," He said lowly, deciding it was merely due to their physical proximity.

In truth, Arthur was a Point Man. He could concentrate on a million tiny details at once and still be good at his job. It hadn't been anywhere near to impossible to harbor feelings for the tiny and innocent architect while still managing to confuse the shit out of a hotel full of projections.

"So…are we really covering paradoxical architecture?"

"No, I'm going to show you the type of skills our Extractor will require- we're going to have you design something based off what I show you today to test the candidates for the job. But I want you to know a couple Extractor skills too, for when…" He stopped, remembering his promise to himself not to say anything about his plan to get her out of the field –again. While she was truthfully the best architect around, he'd been able to make do with less and not risk her life, and while he regretted the dreamscapes he would never see, he admired her normal skin color, breathing rate, and lack of bullet holes far more.

She stayed silent for a moment, waiting for him to continue, then held out a wrist.

"What?" He asked, humorously bemused, because the look on her face was so expectant. Two years ago, they would have been on the same page, but now…

She flopped her arm about impatiently, and Arthur's quizzical expression morphed into a full, real smile.

"No," He said, pseudo-sternly, grabbing at her hand and placing the metal bracelet into her open palm. "I need a minute to get it all set-up."

"What, are you trying to impress me?" She asked with a snort and a chuckle. His nimble fingers paused against the skin of her wrist, and his face closed off again.

"Arthur," She said quietly as he unnecessarily readjusted his ensemble, the PASIV lying on the table easily reachable from his chair, and the cord (clearly a cord could never be too unwound), "Your work has always impressed me."

"I'm not pouting, Ariadne."

"You've straightened your tie three times and you're about to go under."

Arthur broke his Cardinal rule (Glares for Eames are reserved for Eames only) and sent her a look of deep annoyance that would put any former expression to the Forger to shame. He'd forgotten Ariadne was keen with details as well ("_They're still looking at us"_, - he bit back the urge to say, "_then maybe we should try again,_" that hadn't really been the time for that sort of thing). "I was not pouting," His voice was low and clear, "That's unprofessional. I was simply waiting for you to be ready."

"Right…" She sounded skeptical (her intuition had always been an amazing asset to the team) but lay back into the lawn chair with an attitude bordering on good grace. "I missed this," She said quietly.

"Me too." He answered back honestly, turning his head to look at her. "I know you're not too happy with us right now, but you have to understand it was never personal or intentional. And I hope one day you completely forgive us. I know Eames may try and sell you on the idea that that's just how it is in the dream world, and that's true, but I would never do that to you."

"Where were you before you came here? Honestly." Ariadne asked, sensing this was her opportunity. Arthur sighed and faced the ceiling. "Siberia, mostly. Geneva for a week. Latin America. I had to go a month without a suit."

He shot her a look, trying to look like he was in agony, and she smiled at his failed attempt. "I'm giving you sixty seconds."

"That's twelve minutes in the first layer, a hundred forty four in the second;" He began in a condescendingly informative tone, grinning as she slapped his hands away from the bracelet and began to do it herself. She took her time preparing him for the needle, making several unnecessary sweeps over his wrist with her slender fingers, before gently easing in the needle.

"Just waiting for you to be ready." She said with an angelic expression in her eyes and a mischievous grin playing about her face. Arthur rolled his eyes.

The last thing he saw as the Somnacin started to lure him to dream was Ariadne glancing at the timer and biting her lip impatiently.

Eames was right. This was definitely his favorite type of foreplay.


	18. Positive Connotations

They should have realized. But of course they didn't.

Ariadne meandered around the art museum with a sigh of contentment. These were some of the best exhibits she'd ever seen- Architectural wonders and thought-provoking pieces, classical sculptures and pleasing floral arrangements. The lighting was soft, expansive; just right in all the right places. There were beautiful pieces she'd admired in textbooks and art magazines before, and some she'd never seen before but wanted almost immediately. The place was very airy and light, full of windows, glass, and chrome. The place overlooked a familiar stretch of water and trees.

"I reused the external design from the first Architecture dream- and the same general area, to ease your subconscious back into the practice of sharing. The internal elements are mostly from memory- some of my favorites from museums I've taken time to go to, usually to study a mark or approach a client, but I took the time to notice what I liked. I also designed a few pieces I thought you would enjoy. Most of the projections are downstairs at the moment- I designed it as a formal gala; this part of the museum is closed off except for 'VIP guests' which would be us."

"Arthur! What!" Ariadne jumped in surprise, turning from her contemplation of a painting and placing a hand on her chest, just below her collarbone. "What are you doing here?"

Arthur looked politely bemused for a second, before seeming to come to a conclusion. He turned towards a balcony overlooking the lower floor and leaned over it, enjoying the view. Several projections looked up and noticed him; girls in particular, but he paid no mind, waiting instead to feel the presence of his teammate beside him.

"I remember now," She said quietly, joining him after a minute. "Why-"

"A combination. You went so long without it, but your memories also influenced how you perceived the experience would feel-"

"So when it really did happen again, my subconscious expected something different and didn't fire the neurons it should have," She finished for him, with a characteristic hand gesture and nod of understanding that left them both grinning at each other.

"Exactly," Arthur approved. "But lucid dreaming is held in the same school of thought as riding a bike…" He paused for an infinitesimal second, seeing if –hoping, if he were being honest with himself- she would understand him again; she did.

"…meaning I should pick it up again as easily as I left it before. And the second layer?"

"To give us more time. And also, for you to practice going two deep, without sedation."

"Yusuf," She said lowly. Arthur nodded gravely and sighed, rubbing his chin.

"That too. But mostly because I would think you've had enough sedation for a lifetime."

Ariadne turned to really look at him at that statement, leaning her side into the balcony's horizontal bars, and he followed suit, turning into her. She casually leaned back a little, the better to see his face, and appeared to drink his expression in.

Arthur couldn't tell what he looked like at the moment, of course, but Ariadne had never seen his face less guarded. He had often worn an emotionless mask –professionalism, of course, a word everyone seemed to associate with him at all times-, but she had been so sure it was carefully cultivated. Not a wall to keep people out, but a part of his position. What with Cobb's dead wife literally appearing before their client's very eyes, his expression of complete placidity and confidence would surely woo investors and clients.

But in this moment, here, with her, she had never seen him truly expressionless as he was now. His face fell into its natural shape, his eyes both sparkling with warmth and intelligence, his mouth slightly quirked up, the planes of his cheeks and forehead relaxed. He wasn't exactly happy…it was more of a serenity he exuded that Ariadne found peaceful. Yet his last comment had made her wonder if perhaps it was Arthur who had been affected by the Fischer job the most.

He exhaled, breaking off his stare with her and turning back towards the gala below. "I missed this place."

"You haven't been here since?"

"You have?"

The honest answer was yes, two months after the inception, but that was followed by a three o clock a.m. run to the liquor store followed by a re-watching of every overly-cheesy 80's rom-com movie she had despised; because drawing still hit too close to home and acting like a stereotypical teenage girl seemed like a suitable fuck-you under the circumstances.

Not that Arthur had actually caught her at the top of the Penrose stairs and proceeded to inform her kisses were a good way to distract projections, and then demanded she practice for at least ten minutes.

Still, fuck you.

Wisely, she simply shut her mouth and, mesmerized, moved toward another room that had just caught her attention. Arthur grabbed the topmost bar of the balcony and leaned back, following her with his eyes.

"Penrose stairs?" She called over her shoulder, and Arthur jumped away from his self-admittedly creepy examination of her body language –the subtle signs of her shoulders and the tensing of her muscles, the tilt of her head, the stillness or sudden fluidity, even the smallest details like the twitch of her hand or the slight rocking on the balls of her feet- and bounded over, despite the three-piece suit.

"If there's one rule Cobb taught me, Ariadne," He said seriously, "It's to never mess with perfection. These stairs- this design…the positive connotations I have for them, have helped me out on every single one of the jobs I've taken since then."

"Positive connotations?" She cocked her head to the side in an endearingly familiar expression that made him roll up his sleeves and offer a hand stepping down- he had placed them slightly away from the section of the second floor they had been on to emphasize their place as both utility and aesthetic.

"Consider a fond memory you have as a child. Not a person, or an event, but a symbol of that- actual representations, like Mal, often have repercussions, but the expert in the field can handle and benefit from a symbol."

"So you're saying Cobb benefitted from a train nearly mauling us in Fischer's subconscious."

"No, Ariadne, I'm not. The train was a projection, still. Besides, Cobb wasn't exactly…a shining example in the field. I mean a symbol…like the Penrose stairs. Once the person recognizes the pattern, they start to feel the emotions associated with it. Controlling and harnessing these emotions can be a valuable tool on a job. Since you were the only person I've really mentored in the field of dreaming, using Penrose stairs helped me stay calm, focused, and feeling in control of the situation."

"But what if you can't control your connotations?" Ariadne wondered. In fact, she was rather glad Arthur was so focused on evenly meeting her gaze during his explanation, for a few of her projections were having subtle reactions to the huge structure, though with Arthur's uncanny ability for detail they would be far more obvious than any over-the-top exhibit.

"Then you simply learn to balance the good with the bad, and deal with the issues in a healthy way. Fortunately, however, I have yet to have an unpleasant experience with these-"

Ariadne held out a hand, solidly landing on his (rock hard, she noticed, slightly impressed but also a little suspicious- who was to say he couldn't appear more fit in a dream)abdomen and keeping him from taking another step.

He looked surprised and very impressed as he glanced over the edge and the significant drop to the floor below.

"You haven't lost it at all," He said in approval.

She smiled up at him, rolling her shoulders back a bit, and Arthur had to catch his breath as she finally regained the dreams she had lost.


	19. Just A Projection

**A.N. This author's note, and the chapter, started as one thing entirely. It was about Arthur teaching her about projections and the full roles of the team members. Then it turned into psychology and including a reference my English teacher made in class three weeks ago I actually grasped, and got sort of technical and science-y. Then, when the chapter became something else, I rewrote the author's note. Cheers!**

**Then, I divided it in two parts. So there's a really long part, and a really short part.**

"So, the job of the extractor is three-fold. They lead the team, both in and out of the field; act as the main go between client and team, and perform the actual extraction, whether it's in the dream or the real world."

"The real world?"

"Sometimes, a good scare in a dream is all that's needed to convince a Mark to hand over the name of their lover, or the person that hired them. And while it's not my first choice of jobs," He made a face and rubbed the back of his neck, "With Cobb's…background, sometimes contracts with rich socialites on foreign soil was our best bet for non-lethal work. It's not hard to pressure them into revealing anything once you've already taken them under before- they generally don't want to go back."

"It sounds…"

"Legal," He pointed out, his words holding a curious upward lift. "I would think that would appeal to you. In cases like these, the pre-work functions are just standard private detective work, and the architect's mission is to make the dream as, well, dreamlike as possible, so that the subject perceives the dream state as quickly as possible."

"It sounds…simple."

"It is, mostly. Dream share work is for the most part a straightforward industry- the procedures, formats and structures remain the same, much like the dream itself, which has been created by an architect and retains the basic shapes, patterns and functions. But it's the subject's mind that makes the differences, and makes any and all work we do before a dream simply a template. That's why the Extractor is so important."

"You're good at that," Ariadne remarked drily, looking over at the Point man. The pair had slowly stopped walking and stood close to each other. He tilted his head slightly, questioning her seemingly complete statement. "Tying things together." She clarified.

"It's my job as a Point Man," He responded, shrugging slightly. "Research, troubleshoot, and protect the team while inside the…" He made a face, "…during the operation."

"Not a fan of rhyming?" She asked with a slight grin. He shook his head, mashing his lips together in a physical sign of his disgust, and resumed walking again. Ariadne trailed several steps behind, taking her time, soaking in the feelings of the dream space she had missed when class seemed to drag and the whole class was waiting for one person to just stand up in class and turn in the damn test already. She was still watching her companion step around the base of the staircase, his fingers trailing over the surface, expression more serene and unworried than before.

"That's more of an Eames thing. I tend to be a bit more…cultured."

"Really?" Ariadne asked in playful incredulity. Arthur turned and gave her a friendly smirk.

"Can you see Eames dreaming up a place like this?" He replied, waiting for her to catch up to them. "Speaking of, what do you notice? From the projections, details you might have brought in…what characteristics do you see that apply to Extraction. Or, Architecture, if you'd like to discuss that. We have about two minutes."

"I didn't seem to have brought in very much, in terms of Architecture. Nothing that would help an Extractor, anyway. Right?"

Arthur leaned against the wall and studied the ceiling, like she was doing. "Well," He said thoughtfully, stretching his neck out slightly and reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt. "That could also mean you're comfortable with my design, and control. Any Extractor who found this wouldn't know which was one of us was the dreamer and which was the subject, but if Eames were to come in he would recognize my style. Putting that together with his knowledge of your position on the team, he could deduce you were deferring to me, or that we had a close bond, and then manipulate that information to determine the contents of the safe."

"He would need to know where to find the safe first," Ariadne pointed out. "So where would you put it?"

"I don't know," He looked amused. "Where would you look for it?"

Ariadne turned away from him and attempted to scan the room for possible safe locations to hide her secrets. Arthur would have used his knowledge of her to design a place her subconscious would have felt safe in. Her subconscious would have stored her secrets in a place Arthur wouldn't know about.

It was a trick Eames had taught her, the one shared dream they had been in together for during the Fischer case. He had briefly mentioned militarizing projections (explaining why they had always made her host the dreams, preferring instead to set the framework). Later, on the first level, under fire, she had wished he would have gone into more depth. But he had focused instead on ways to protect her own subconscious from infiltration, ways that he said fit her personality, genetics, and brain-pattern characteristics more specifically than the militarized projections so many dreamers employed.

She had been very impressed, of course, until Eames had clapped her on the back and told her to thank Arthur, who had suggested the concept in the first place but figured Eames knew the skill set better, as it was very like Forging.

The concept of redesigning once inside a dream itself was extremely difficult and dangerous, due to the heightened perception of the subconscious. While the subject themselves would notice only glaring changes that didn't fit their perception of a dream space or scale, or past experiences in it, the projections would react to even small stimuli, unless the changer worked with the dream. Eames, who of course used this principle to Forge, was a better teacher than Arthur, who was used to reacting to the dream, not the other way around.

"I moved it." She announced calmly. Arthur looked taken aback, in an impressed and slightly delighted way, but only for a second.

"That's not possible." He corrected smoothly, his guards back up. Ariadne opened her mouth to contradict him – this is _my _dream, Arthur, I think I know what I'm doing- when she realized this might be part of the test.

"I disagree. It's a technique used to protect the subconscious, just as much as weaponry or obvious guards."

"That _is _true," Arthur conceded, that familiar smile of pride in her skills and cammaderie at their experiences together animating his face. "But only when your subconscious feels threatened. I've been observing your projections carefully. They seem to find me as not a large threat. It's reasonable to assume I can change several elements of the dream without being detected."

"But Cobb said-"

"Cobb was speaking from a place of knowing you from all of twenty minutes in real time. He was still testing your skills; your characteristics; whether you were trustworthy or not. His subconscious was much less comfortable with yours then yours is with me."

"So why did he warn me about changing the dream if it wouldn't be a problem?"

"Because the subject is always the Mark, Ariadne. If they're too comfortable in your presence, it's a sign something's wrong."

"Couldn't it just mean they were a friendly, open person with few secrets to hide, and a firm belief in trusting other people?"

"No, because belief is an unconscious act, but one based on a conscious choice at some point and then looped repetitively." He used his long fingers to illustrate the concept. "It's all feedback, but it won't penetrate here in the same ways. The brain works in strange ways. An open person could have either cheerful, talkative, smiling projections, because of their disposition, or silent, depressed, miserable projections representing the repression of feelings, ideas, and memories that the subject buries consciously to allow themselves to be cheerful and open-minded in reality."

"So we treat each mark case by case, and the lesson is no one is ever the same and there's a hundred different reasons for every little detail, but we all start and end at the same place."

"Exactly. Now you see the point of an Extractor. When you see Point A and B, you connect them visually- if you see a point here and a point there, you build a bridge to connect them, and a wall to isolate point C. The Extractor doesn't work like that- the Extractor sees it in different terms. I can't fully explain- Cobb often visualized it in terms of Architecture, like you, because at heart he was an Architect. But the thing about Extracting is it's the same every time- a subject. And you start to see similarities between subject and subject, and strategies. Each variable becomes a separate entity, like one side of a dice. Roll the right combination of techniques; you crack the Extraction."

He pulled out the red die and held it out next to Ariadne.

"You said never to let anyone else touch-"

"We're dreaming," He reminded her. "What you perceive now won't matter."

Ariadne protested weakly. "But I'll know how it feels in a dream, so I can figure out how it feels in real life." She backed a step away from the die, but Arthur stepped closer to her again.

"Take it." He commanded, and then when she continued to hesitate, he raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "You can plunge into Cobb's dreams without a twinge of your moral compass but you can't take my totem when I offer it to it?"

"You could just be my projection of you," Ariadne pointed out, her arm twitching. She slightly raised it, then lowered it quickly. Arthur clamped his jaw shut. "What?" She said quickly.

"If I was just a projection it wouldn't matter anyway. But you need to be careful, questioning reality when you're already in a dream. Over thinking things will lead to insanity."

Ariadne studied the serious expression of his face and very timidly reached forward, pausing just before she could pluck the die from between his thumb and forefinger. She held out her hand instead and he dropped in into her waiting palm.

"It feels weightless." She said, trying to study the innocent-looking thing without looking at it. The red die looked chunky, still slightly scratched and scuffed, the edges slightly worn down into each other. The white dots still seemed to enhance the red opaque glow it exuded.

"But it's not." Arthur said. "It's just lighter than a normal die, or at the very least lighter than the die you expected. It's related to an English studies concept- when you hear the word 'chair', your brain instinctively comes up with a mental concept, complete with visual, of a chair. The neurons fire so fast you don't consciously even perceive it- it hovers just outside of range. Abstract concept. But when you hear the word chair, every time, you will think of a chair. Because you're an Architect; you wouldn't be very familiar with this- it's somewhat advanced, usually only English Majors get there. So real world examples-" He palmed the die from Ariadne, slipping it back into his pocket,"-work better for you. You heard the word die in my example. You pictured one, abstractly. While it was still fresh in your mind, I brought out my own. You recognized it before I even brought it out- there was no change of expression until you realized the significance of what I was doing- meaning your abstract of a die is probably red. The shape, cut, and outwardly appearance were all the same- no surprises there. But when you felt it, your reaction gave it away. Your die had a heaver weight to it than this representation of my totem. Meaning your brain perceived it as weightless, because it was lighter than the abstract. That's what determines how light or dark colors are here; how hard and soft fabrics are and other perceptions. They're all based back on the abstract concept."

"How do you know-"

"Maybe later," Arthur said kindly, glancing at his watch. "Walk with me."


	20. Drifting Away

"Where we are going?" She asked, confused, as he started back up the Penrose steps. She hurried to keep up with him, but once she met his pace he slowed down, using his hands on the railings to send his momentum forward.

"To the safe."

She nearly stopped walking, but recovered quickly from her moment's hesitation. "You put it up here?"

"Of course. It's behind the first painting you were staring at."

"But how-" She broke off, completely astonished. He smiled, pleased with himself.

"You can't resist a new opportunity to learn things, Ariadne. Especially in a perfectly contained place, like this. It was misdirection. Knowledge is your weakness."

"And what's your weakness?" She asked boldly, in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. "It's only fair."

She wasn't expecting a tender moment to happen, where he declared in a throaty voice it was "_you, _Ariadne", and then sweep her up for a kiss; such a _personal_ moment, so she was rather surprised when that's what happened. He turned her and brushed a finger against her cheek, eyes softening in kindness and friendship.

"You," He said lowly. "My greatest asset to the team is that I have no weakness," He continued, seriously, "Because my weakness is that I have responsibility for the whole team. Your knowledge is just as much a weapon as it is a weakness- remember that. As a man, _as Arthur_, I have weaknesses as much everyone else. But as The Point Man, I have no weakness. If the Extractor is the imagination of the team, I'm the muscle and sinew that holds it all together. I have to separate myself from my work completely- keep only my logic and follow the Extractor. You can…leave…do something impulsive; change the dream- leave a Mark on every place you see. I…can't."

"Arthur…I…" She reached a hand of her own up and covered his, still brushed against her cheek. Her small fingers seemed to tremble next to his strong, much bigger hands. It was a show of support, and of comfort, and simply being a human presence. He had never opened up to her like this before- shown a darker, personal side to it. He was fascinated by the dream world; liberated by it, but the cost of his decision to work for it seemed a painful and hard to bear price. Ariadne wondered what the price was for her own participation.

"We'll run out of time if we don't drop a level," He said huskily after a moment, gently sliding his hand out from between the cream of her cheek and the smoothness of her fingers. Ariadne thought she imagined a faint trace of regret in his voice, but he simply shadowed her walk across the gleaming exhibit hall. Once at the painting, his firm shoulders and muscled arms were quick to pull the frame like a door. His capable hands pulled out a silver briefcase, which flashed in the light. Lowering himself to the floor, he popped the locks connecting the halves and revealed the machine. Ariadne sank to her knees, scooting closer to him across the floor, watching in silence as he effortless drew out and separated two more needle packs. He handed her one and she used her teeth to rip it open, ignoring the crease in his forehead and the slight quirk of his mouth at her unsanitary actions.

In no time, the device was humming. He rested his back against the wall and shook his hand several times to move his shirt sleeves out of the way. Ariadne had removed her jacket –again- and was attempting to attach the needle one handed while off balance, her legs tucked underneath her.

"Wait." Arthur said loudly, startling her.

"What?" She asked. He shot her an incredulous look. "You expect me to believe you can sleep sitting up like that? You'll fall over in about ten seconds and either wake yourself up or give yourself a concussion when you wake up from this level, which means you'll have one hell of a headache when we get back."

She blushed, but scooted closer towards him. He raised his eyes some more.

"What _now_, Arthur?" She asked, exasperated.

He grinned slightly. "I've seen you sleep, you'll slide right off the wall. Put your head on my shoulder and lean into me; you're body will automatically brace itself to keep you comfortable."

He didn't wait for her response, just set up the PASIV, loaded the Somnacin, and set the timer, but he felt her head gently nudge his shoulder. He relaxed into it as she readjusted and leaned back against the wall himself, risking a glance down at the dark hair and warm weight nestled against his shoulder. Her left arm was held out awkwardly on her thigh, awaiting the needle; she looped her right arm around his left and snuggled slightly into his side. He smiled and inserted his own needle into the left, then brought his right arm to rest in the crook of his elbow, resting against her hand. He slowly lowered his head over hers and depressed the button.

"I think you're a wonderful Point man, if it helps," She said drowsily, her steady voice seeming to seep into his chest. He chuckled stiffly.

"It does," He said with a sigh, drifting away.

Ariadne heard his sleepy confession and allowed herself a smile of satisfaction as she too closed her eyes and succumbed.


	21. Brutally Honest

**A.N. LOL, if you read just the chapter titles in order it sounds like a TOTALLY different story. I love it! Anyway, Chapter Twenty One. We're about one fourth through the story, if you're interested… Again, sorry about the science chapter, but Arthur & Ariadne really do love that stuff and I think it would show…also, I had so much fun writing the fluff at the end. **

"Alright, so….rules of Extraction," Arthur said, helping Ariadne to her feet and loading a gun, which he then handed to her.

"I thought you said…"

"We're in my subconscious this time; if we went into yours your subconscious in the level above would have torn us to pieces."

"But now your subconscious is going to tear us into pieces."

"That's the plan, anyway," He said offhandedly, shrugging. The alarm on Ariadne's face must have shown, for he gave her a reassuring smile. "It won't hurt; mine are professionals."

She sighed and inched a little closer to him, just in case. They appeared to have woken up in a dimly lit industrial type room, with white beams near the ceiling, cracking paint on concrete walls, and a cold hard floor. Arthur flicked the light switch and the whole room seemed to flicker and crackle.

"Where are we?" Ariadne asked, tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans. Arthur caught her arm.

"Keep it out. We have five minutes at most, and that's if you're a good shot. Learning to shoot under pressure isn't the best way to learn technique, but it's the quickest way to learn to kill projections. We're in an abandoned warehouse- industrial- I thought it might help you feel less empathy toward my subconscious. I'm going to show you what happens when you try and break into someone's mind, because you've never seen it in action, but I'm going to fail on purpose. This is a serious business; the Extractor you choose will need to be warned, but if you can't explain the consequences the warning won't stick. But also, you should never go in for an extraction guns blazing and just a straight sprint for the finish with someone familiar to the dream world."

"Arthur-" Ariadne stopped him, fidgeting like she wanted to say something. She tried, several times, but nothing seemed to come out. "Never mind," She said weakly, after a moment.

"No, what?" He turned from his stance and bent until he was eye-level with her. "You're supposed to be learning here, you can ask me any question you need to."

She wouldn't meet his eyes, however, looking away and biting her lower lip. He waited patiently, still peering into her face, because he knew her, and there was only so long she could go before her curiosity and her sense of needing to understand and comprehend everything won out.

"Ariadne," He said softly, persuasively, because damn it if she didn't make him want to know everything going on inside her capable head. The two of them could talk –and had, during the Fischer case, waiting for Cobb to return- having spirited discussions on dream architecture, dream space, dream…everything. The two of them shared similar passions for their job, and quite frankly loved and enjoyed it more than anything else they'd ever done. Sharing that gift with someone else had, for both of them, been an irreplaceable experience, and led to a deep bond between the two.

"Can you be the one to talk to the new Extractor?" She said after a moment. "I-I don't…want the responsibility of that, and you're really….you're really good at it."

He understood the reason she wouldn't meet his eyes then- guilt. He smiled slightly and straightened up, turning towards the darker area of the warehouse.

"I can," He said gravely. "But I do want you to remember not every job you do will be like this one. Sometimes in this field you will have to do things you don't want, and don't feel comfortable with. Because they have to be done. You're right- I probably would be a better fit to talk to the new Extractor, but I want you there too, so you can see how it's done, because on another job you might be the most…moral member of the team, and you should use that to try and prevent the new member from becoming to corrupt."

"What other jobs are you expecting me to get, Arthur?" She asked in bewilderment. "Nash said after the job he's going to kill us."

"Well, I'm getting you out, at least," Arthur said resolutely. He turned his head to the side and looked back down to see her expression. But she shook her head.

She felt the need to remind Arthur of the truth. No doubt he was planning on saving her (and she did appreciate the gesture) out of a sense of friendship, and what was right, and because he cared about her, but the odds of him succeeding were small at best. "Nash wants me dead the most, Arthur, I don't see what you can do."

"Nash isn't working for himself though, he has to answer for Cobol, and Cobol won't be as likely to kill you seeing as you have all sorts of traces in the real world. Not only that, but you're a professor at a University who knows about dream share- a position of real power they can try to exploit. You're too valuable to them."

"Even if that's true Arthur, why would I go back into the business?"

"Because you're exceptionally good at it." He felt the need to be brutally honest. He had wanted to have this conversation up top, but now that it had come up he felt he couldn't just ignore it for later. He had more respect for Ariadne than that. She was not a woman who let people promise her answers later- she wanted them now. "And I'd hate to think Eames and I made your life that horrible that you'd want to stop."

"Eames hasn't really had much to do with it," She said drily. He gave her his customary smirk and decided to wrap up this conversation and return to the point of the 'lesson'. He wasn't sure when he had decided to slip into the role of Mentor for her, especially when she was practically as skilled as he was, but argued to himself his experience in the field gave him the right to help her out with the little things.

"Well, we can return to this discussion later, but I set the timer up above so we have to move, I'm afraid," He gave his gun a once-over to see if it was ready for the task at hand and then politely inquired if he could double-check hers as well. She nodded and handed it over, but her mind was clearly still somewhere else.

"Alright," He said after he was finished, handing it back to her with as warm a smile as he could muster, though it was tight and didn't reach his eyes. "The Extractor will need to be tested on three things. The first; their ability to get through a maze, which you will be designing. Second- their ability to think under pressure and react creatively to problems. And the final ability: whether they can get to a safe or not in a dream. So- my safe is two floors above us, in the Northeast corner. We're currently in the southwest corner of the building. See if you can make it there."

"What if I get shot but don't die?" Ariadne asked. Arthur grimaced.

"Have you been shot before?"

She wasn't usually an eye-roller, having outgrown that skill years ago for the more professional "why?", but two years in the classroom and the ridiculousness of Arthur's question broke down her habit of not rolling her eyes.

"No," She snapped, "I haven't. Seeing as you've been with me in nearly every single dream, I would have thought you'd remember-"

"I wasn't in 'every single dream'," Arthur snapped back, rolling _his _eyes at his friend's antics. Truth was, he sometimes forgot she was younger and in a different stage of her life than himself, and when she acted out like this he was glad for the reminder. Working with her was a study in learning new things and mentoring, but he was secretly glad of the entertainment. Watching Cobb squirm had been especially satisfying, in a vindictive way, but now that he was her apparent new target, he felt empathy for the man. "You were in at least three without me. The point is, _Ariadne_," (he hastened to add, for she had opened up her mouth to no doubt put him in his place), "getting shot doesn't necessarily have to hurt. It _will_, but theoretically you can trick your mind into thinking it won't, like when you're dreaming and you get shot and it doesn't actually hurt."

"It always hurts."

"Yeah well, some people have that skill. It'll hurt, painfully so, but it's better than a stabbing."

He saw her shudder and remembered –too late- the first time she'd been taken out by a projection in a dream. "I'm sorry," He said quickly and sincerely. "I forgot about-"

"It's fine." She squared her shoulders but glanced up at him and gave him what was meant to be a reassuring and forgiving smile, though it was quick and looked much more like a grimace. "Northeast corner, two floors up. And if I get shot, I'm screwed. Got it."

The smile she flashed him over her shoulder was genuine now, and mischievous, but she looked worried as well. He had made a face at the last point her debriefing of his debriefing, but she had already begun to walk away, and didn't see it.

"If you get shot just shoot yourself in the head to get out of it," He called, "Wait for me back up top. And if you don't feel comfortable doing that you can wait it out, or yell for me and I'll try to come help you. If I don't-"

"-Got it, Arthur," She yelled from the distance. He grinned and turned in the opposite direction from her, looking for an external stairwell he'd put in in the opposite corner. She'd be dead in five minutes- this floor would be marked as dangerous, but the factory level above would be swarming with projections.


	22. Glass Raindrops

**I'm sorry guys but this chapter was hard! This is version 5….but my seventh time writing it out…if that makes sense. I just, lost the ability to write I guess. Don't worry; once I tough out this part there's a lot of good stuff coming. Just not this. :/ So finally, because it's been too long (and really, I am sorry) I'm just putting it out there so we can get to the good stuff. Like Cobol, and Fischer, and new extractors, and if Dom will show…**

…**.just kidding. Like I'd really spoil the plot. Pshhh.**

**If I was Nolan, I'd be working on TDKR right now, not wasting my time writing fanfiction when I could just be making this into a movie. Geesh.**

Arthur reached his hand up towards his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd been beaten to death by a particularly violent projection wielding a metal pipe. His theory had been correct- the exterior stairway had been devoid of any human security and the cameras paced in strategically located spots he could easily predict and thus avoid. However, even being invisible wasn't enough, because his subconscious had placed the guardroom at the top of the staircase.

He figured the lead pipe was probably just some long repressed and forgotten fear of being beaten to death like a piñata, but since he wasn't a psychologist he wasn't a hundred percent sure about it.

It did make sense though, he mused, trying desperately to avoid thinking about the weight on his shoulder, and the warmth of it, and how she smelled….

But really, he couldn't expect to best his own subconscious. They would think the same way, prepare for the same consequences- probably even be out of character in the same way. It was like playing chess with yourself- you had both an unfair advantage and disadvantaged, and you could never win.

"You okay?" He asked huskily, when Ariadne still hadn't moved from his shoulder. She'd been awake for a minute or two now- he'd noticed in the subtle shift of her frame as she awoke and the slight stiffness in her posture. She hadn't moved from her position- they had woken up almost entwined, her thigh firmly pressed into his, his hand palmed over it possessively- but he hadn't really wanted her to either.

Ariadne, on the other hand, was quite uncomfortable. Her neck was stiff, cricked from her position, but she felt adverse to moving it. His warm and lean frame seemed to radiate…she wasn't sure what, but it made her feel restless and achy. His hand was firm heavy on her leg- it twitched slightly, occasionally, but that only made the ache worse. She wasn't stupid; she knew exactly what was going on here and what the solution would be, but it seemed more complicated than that.

"yes," She said sincerely, rolling her head up to its normal position. "Why did the dream collapse? There was still…" She glanced over Arthur to look at the timer, "thirty seconds left. That's-"

"Two and a half minutes, yeah." Arthur drew his hand over his mouth and rubbed at his face for a second. "Did you get to the safe?"

She sighed and leaned back against the wall, shooting him a sidewise glance of wry embarrassment. He was intrigued.

"Yes," She said finally.

"Yes?" He echoed, in a voice nearly begging for clarification. She had sounded so…chagrined about it.

"I..." She flung up her hands for a second and let them fall with a huff. "I made it to the room with the safe and I got excited so I ran and the projections started closing in and then I realized I didn't have a clue what the combination was so then I didn't know what to do but then the dream collapsed and I woke up."

She said it all in one breath, with the air of a confession, and then turned her warm eyes on him. He bit the inside of his cheek in a futile effort not to smile, but the smirk slid slowly across his face until she smiled back at him.

"Good thing you're not extracting then," He said after a moment, clearing his throat and trying to act nonchalant about what had clearly just been 'a moment'. She blushed faintly, an echo of the lobby all over again, and he wondered for a moment what would happen if he pressed those soft lips and drew out another kiss, light and sweet and tender and deep all at once. But then he reminded himself that they were colleagues, and on several hit lists, and at any rate it would be impolite to steal another kiss while in a dream.

"I lasted longer than you!" She protested, realizing afterward the connotations of her speech and praising the higher powers, whoever they were, that Arthur wasn't Eames.

"That doesn't matter; you didn't extract the information in the safe." He hadn't actually meant to argue, considering this had really just been a shameless ploy to get her to dream with him (but he had to preserve his mentorship- give it a purpose, even a fake one, so she wouldn't realize he was taking advantage of her willingness to dream and learn to spend more time with her), but there was something in the way she took this so seriously that made him want to defend himself. There was, after all, a lesson to be learned here.

"Yes, well," She grumbled, slouching. Each word was heavily emphasized by the pause she left between speaking. "Neither did you."

Arthur glanced over at her in faux-disapproval, the corners of his mouth turned down almost comically, and Ariadne had to bite down on her lip to stop a smile from escaping. Arthur, seeing her worry her lip, completely lost his sense of restraint and leaned down to her, resting his forehead against hers and maneuvering for a kiss. She let her eyes drift shut as their bodies made contact- his arm supporting the small of her back, still attached to the PASIV and let out a little sound of contentment that left Arthur burning. He tilted his head more, finding the perfect position, but to his surprise she sighed and turned her head away. Her hands were limp on his chest, yet she made no attempt to move them away.

He simply hovered there, still and silent, and waited uncertainly for the next move. His chess analogy came back to him from before, only with different parts now, and he wanted to groan in frustration.

He didn't realize he had groaned aloud, in fact, until Ariadne's timid eyes shot up to meet his. Her face was flushed, embarrassed, yet there was a flicker of pride and also one of longing in her steady gaze. Her hands trembled on his chest, and he instinctively tightened his grip on her backside, pulling her farther into the curve of his arm.

"The timer's about to run out," He said hoarsely, in a rough whisper full of need and aggravation that contrasted the coolness of the words. He cleared his throat and gently released her, relaxing into the ever faithful Point Man once more. She nodded, looking sorrowful, but clamped her mouth shut and winced, closing her eyes and waiting as the ceiling began to crack and the tiles began to peel away, cascading over them like glass raindrops that woke them up with a painful sort of lightness.


	23. Pattern Repetitive Thought Processess

"Had fun, did we?" Eames asked pleasantly, smiling at the two of them. It was only because they knew him so well that the two were able to detect the frustration and impatience below the surface. He was apparently not pleased with them.

Ariadne looked from one stone cold face to the other and wondered if these were the same two men as her friends, who were warm and patient and smiled with her. Eames' pleasantness was far worse than him downright getting angry, and the way Arthur seemed to clam up made her heart ache.

"I was teaching her what to cover with the Extractor during the job interview," He explained coldly to Eames. "What did you need?"

Eames held up his mobile and waved it around in his large hand. He was wearing a salmon colored shirt today with his linen pants and suit jacket, but it was wrinkled and tousled.

"Nash contacted me and arranged to meet us all here in an hour. I tried both of your phones and got no response. Luckily, I came here instead of looking at the hotel, or we would have been dead."

"You're forgetting we've been hired by Cobol now. They can't exactly kill us until we've fulfilled the contract."

"Why's Nash meeting us?" Ariadne asked in confusion. "He already told us we had to extract from Fischer."

"Yes," Arthur agreed patiently, subtly thawing out to inform his protégé of the latest development, "He did, but he hasn't told us what we're extracting and he doesn't realize we did a job on him already. He thinks we were on the plane together coming from a job- he doesn't realize we performed inception. And he can't learn."

"If he tries extraction?" Eames wondered, his voice trailing around in his usual lazy pattern. He sat down on the chair next to Arthur and gave a half-hearted kick at the Point Man's chair leg. Arthur simply spared him one chilling sidewise glare before hoisting himself up and off the seat once more. He stood before Ariadne's chair.

"He won't," He said dismissively. "He thinks he knows already."

"So then what?"

"We do the job and you two get out," He said with a shrug. Ariadne's reaction was rather touching- her eyes widened, head tilted, and her whole expression softened as she gazed at Arthur in equal parts fear and fondness. Arthur cleared his throat and looked at Eames carefully, dropping his gaze from the Architect. Even Eames looked sympathetic and worried, and a little sorrowful, which only made it worse.

He shook his head and knelt down next to Ariadne, fingers brushing over her wrist as he carefully drew out the needle. Since his gaze was on the expanse of creamy skin he had to physically resist the urge to kiss and caress, he completely missed the look of grim determination his two colleagues exchanged. Eames glanced once at the back of his coworker's head and stood up, pacing across the room on the other side, giving the two a private moment.

"We'll get you out too," Ariadne said quietly, closing her hand over his, still holding onto her wrist. Arthur shook his head and looked up at her seriously.

"It's only fair though," He argued. "I did fail the job Cobol hired me to perform."

"So did Cobb," She protested angrily, her voice rising and then falling as Eames rolled his eyes at their behavior.

"Yes, but I'm the Point Man," He explained patiently. "Part of my job is to tie up loose ends; assist the Extractor. I'm responsible for the team and I take the fall when it fails."

"Yes but Cobb-"

"Cobb won't leave his kids for me, Ariadne."

"But that's…"

"That's how the business is." His smile was wry and self-deprecating, and he could tell how not okay with his answer she was. She folded her arms and sent Eames and then himself a bewildered look he'd seen her wear before, usually when Cobb was…being Cobb.

That was the dream industry. For all the moments of creation and adrenaline and adventure and pure reality –the heightened senses, feelings, perceptions and epiphanies- was a cold and cutthroat world of shady businessmen in seedy corners wearing handsome suits and carrying gleaming cases. On the one side it was glamorous, intriguing- the best of espionage. But on the other it was dark, shady, and full of secrets, mistrust, and deceit. It was dusty corners in Mombasa with bad lighting and rooms in motels with rusty water and flies circling the light bulb.

"I hate to interrupt," Eames said breezily, stepping back into the small area Ariadne and Arthur had taken over, "but our employer should be arriving soon."

Ariadne sat up straighter, alarmed, clenching the arms of the chair and holding Arthur's gaze intensely. Arthur, for his part, didn't look away. The two simply stared at each other for a moment, but as far as Eames could tell (and he was _trying_) they weren't wordlessly communicating or being nauseatingly sappy. They were just…looking. At each other. Without talking. And it was creepy.

Eames moved toward the door with a slight shudder but a rueful grin as well. While Arthur and his relationship was fraught with peril, and his opinion of what was stuck-up-Arthur's ass was repeated, out loud, frequently, he had a certain amount of respect for his coworker. He also valued Arthur's life, and Ariadne would have been a dear friend to him in any other line of work. At first during the Inception job he had thought –incorrectly, thank god- that The Architect had been rather into Cobb. She did, after all, follow him everywhere, even dreams; demand she accompany him and thoroughly take his word as law. He had even suspected it was returned –well, to the best of Cobb's ability, considering he was still in love with a crazy psychopath homicidal projection of his dead wife based on his grief and guilt for whatever had happened to her- especially when he had insisted Ariadne stay with him during the third level.

And yet, Eames' job was to observe people and pick up on their quirks. He was an expert in quick character study and pattern-repetitive thought processes. It had been easy to see fairly quickly that the mentor-student relationship Arthur and Ariadne had developed in Paris whilst he was gambling –quite happily, he remembered with fondness- was simply two workaholic people fascinated by the same things and quite impressed and enamored with each other. He could still picture quite clearly the matching glares they had sent him (_"this, Ariadne, is a kick."_), not to mention the _most interesting _view he had had of the hotel lobby with his peripherals. Professional, calm, cool, collected killing machine Arthur had actually worked up the nerve and recklessness to get her to kiss him. _On the job._

While Eames wasn't opposed to the relationship in the slightest, (_I mean really, she's not the type to commit suicide, and he certainly wouldn't let her get that deep in the first place_) he was opposed to it taking place while his life was at stake. Granted, theirs were too, so it was a now-or-never type deal, but still.

Also, and this was completely off the record, but Eames had never seen two adults who clearly had feelings for each other and knew about it move so slowly. Especially under the circumstances. Had he been them, he would have splurged on a lavish hotel room and simply fucked the rest of his life away.

Of course, if he got out of this, that's what he planned on doing anyway; only pausing to eat, sleep, shower, and visit the local casinos.

Luckily, before Eames could muse about _Arthur_ and _love life _and _Ariadne _any more, Nash walked in, accompanied by five Cobol security employees wearing suspenders. Their guns were prominently displayed. Eames grimaced politely and sat down in a chair near Arthur, tilting it on its legs in a passable impression of the Point Man. Arthur snapped to and immediately retrieved the famous moleskin notebook of yesteryear Eames had always been tempted to steal and scribble lewd messages in.

"I think in the interest of all involved we should probably discuss the particulars of the case as quickly as possible," Arthur recommended, ever the Point Man. He nodded at Nash's entourage and then placed his pen against the fine paper, poised and ready to take notes.

Nash nodded, a little uneasily, and crossed to the center of the room. He ignored Eames and Ariadne completely, choosing only to speak to Arthur. He seemed tense and on edge, Ariadne mused, yet theoretically he was the one in power here. She figured it was simply a side effect of dealing with Arthur. Still, she filed it away for later knowledge. Forgers and Point Men weren't the only ones capable of using details to better their work.

"The Subject is Robert Fischer, 29." Nash began, then paused in confusion. Arthur was simply staring at him, not taking notes, simply looking like he expected more information. Eames cleared his throat and Arthur seemed to jump, scribbling down in almost illegible handwriting the information he probably could have recited in his sleep.

Ariadne was appalled at his terrible handwriting.

**A.N. Woahhhh…It's at the end of the chapter this time. So you- yes, you- I know you're reading this. And I know you have an opinion on it. So you should hit that little review button down there and tell me what you think!**


	24. Frenzied Passion

**Can she go for three? Yes, she can! See, I told you it was just the chapter. Anyway, I hope this tides you over…we are approaching the new Extractor entering the team (bum bum BUUUUM) oh..wait..this is inception (BWAAAAAAAA BWAAAAAAA BWAAAAAAAA **_**non je ne regretten**_**) No, just kidding. But seriously, word of advice- don't make that song your alarm. It messes me up SO BAD in the mornings. Anyway it's 1:42 am and I am a slap-happy AN rambler. Who-hoo. Anyway, I don't mean to be creepy but if any of y'all would like to introduce yourselves feel free to PM me…my fan fiction buddy deserted me so now I have no one :/ forever alone. Anyway, I present to you, the latest in fan fiction why can't there be a second movie glory- chapter twenty four! **

**But this is a long note because I wanted to chat for a moment. First of all, I was cruising around for the latest in Inception posts, and I saw this one post that I wish I could cite but I don't now remember, but it made me go back and rewatch the film because the author pointed out the funniest thing. In the "this, Ariadne, is a kick", Eames literally kicks Arthur's chair. So when she administers the "Kick" to Fischer, she literally gives him a kick off the edge of the Limbo building. That's my second favorite moment with her. The first is after her stabbing, someone is talking but you just see her mouth "what the fuck?". It makes me laugh every time, even more than Arthur's angry car face or Leo and Fischer's iconic four panel shots. Also- has anyone seen the Interception picture? Effin hysterical.**

**That is all. **

"How deep exactly will we have to go?" Ariadne asked curiously. She had scooted her chair closer to look over Arthur's shoulder at the rapidly filling notebook pages- at one point she had even plucked the pen from his unresisting grasp and scribbled down a few notes of her own, though in much better handwriting. Eames had almost fallen out of his chair when Arthur had allowed her to see the contents of his precious diary; seeing her seize control caused him to simply lose the ability to speak momentarily.

Nash shook his head in slight bewilderment. While focusing on the project it was easy to forget that they were on opposing sides of a life or death issue- Ariadne had forgotten in light of the pre-planning stages she found so fascinating.

"We can only do two levels without a chemist," Arthur warned in his reassuring voice. The implication of his statement- the accusation of Yusuf's death clouded the room- caused Ariadne to feel like the warm Parisian sunlight had suddenly grown darker. Nash had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.

"Cobol knows Chemists." He said dismissively with another one of those spastic gestures Eames was eyeing professionally. Ariadne personally wanted to beat the twitch out of him, while Arthur simply remembered there were guards all around and he'd warn his nicest suit for the occasion.

"But Yusuf was the best." Ariadne protested, well aware she was coming off as whiny and petulant. Still, she reasoned to herself, it was understandable given the circumstances. Nash grimaced.

"I'll see what I can do," He promised, opening his mouth to say something else- irrelevant, Arthur thought impatiently- "Yusuf's dead." He said gruffly, staring coldly at his former co-worker. "You killed him in Amsterdam."

"We _shot _him in Amsterdam," Nash corrected, twitching again –Ariadne had to physically resist the urge to throttle him, sitting on her hands to prevent temptation. "Did you actually see him die?"

"No but-" Arthur's look changed from frustration and anger to wonderment. "Cole?" He asked bemusedly. Nash nodded.

"Cole?" Ariadne asked, feeling several steps behind. Arthur turned to explain to her at the same time Nash sent her a disdainful glare.

"Is your Architect always so unprofessional?" He asked, leering. Arthur's jaw muscle tightened again, but otherwise he ignored all signs of an interruption.

"Cole is a Disposer- someone hired to hide or fake evidence to confuse other dreamers, protect identities, or assist in Extractions. He's one of the best out there. I've worked with him before, but rarely; they generally tend to stay with corporations involved in the industry."

"Oh," Ariadne wasn't _quite _satisfied, but under the circumstances decided she'd just ask him later- Nash was looking several things at the moment, and none of them were impressed. Arthur gave her a barely imperceptible nod and a quick flash of a smile to signal they would continue this conversation later. Neither of them could resist discussing the job they both adored and all its little nuances, after all.

Only Arthur was coming at it from the perspective of preparing her as best as he could until she would be on her own, again. And Ariadne simply enjoyed lessons with Arthur to an almost unhealthy extent.

Actually, she thought to herself, it was definitely unhealthy. She had had a tendency over the last two days to forget that he and Eames had abandoned her, only to drag her back into this world when she'd finally begun to move on. And she had fallen right back in without so much as a protest- no squabbles or complaints, only an immature eagerness to fall back into her own habits and addictions, all because of a fine suit and the lure of the dream world that couldn't exist in reality, and certainly not in her future…

Eames must have seen the way her face fell into one of self-disgust and disgruntlement, for he made a point to catch her eye and send her a questioning glance filled with concern and inviting confidences. But she shook her head. Eames was part of the problem, and the last time she had tried to talk to him about something she had ended up confessing her feelings to Arthur.

But then the full implications sunk in, and abruptly she leapt up from her chair and turned to Nash with a look of such frenzied passion he took an involuntary step back.

"Yusuf's alive?" She exclaimed, stilling to wait for the answer. Nash nodded, turning to Arthur and speaking in that quiet voice of his that drove all three of the Inception team members crazy. Nash hesitated. "But Arthur-"

"Found planted evidence," The Point Man growled, standing up as well and sending a particularly venomous and unprofessional glare to the former Architect. "It was expertly planted to lure us all out."

"But he's alive," She repeated encouragingly, smiling at Arthur like Yusuf's state of being made up for the fact that it was _his _fault they- who was he kidding; _she_- was in this position. _He _had taken the bait and led them to Eames and Ariadne. _He _had convinced the two of them to go on the run. _He _had agreed to take the Extraction.

Bile rose in his throat. He had been _so sure _Yusuf was really dead that he had exposed them all. He was responsible for this. Just like he'd been responsible for missing Fischer's extraction training and compromising the entire mission. He only wondered what price he would have to pay this time for his shortcomings.

Eames, on the other hand, was much more confident in Arthur's abilities. He also hadn't been spending the last week or so using basically the lamest seduction technique known to the inhabitants of the earth- his job.

Instead, Eames had spent his time using his contacts and searching for answers and escape routes to his current predicament. In fact, he'd contacted Cole's partner (an exquisite brunette Eames was proud to say he'd performed wonders with both professionally and in a more mature setting) who had told him for a fact they were in Sweden and couldn't do much for him.

Eames prided himself on his people skills and perceptions of character, and he was willing to bet most of his considerable fortunes that it was not on a job assignment. Nash had never been brought up in the conversation- even though Eames was using an untraceable and un-buggable phone he was unwilling to take that great a risk. But Cobol had, and Charlotta (the lovely and unfortunately now off the market Thief) had placed their last assignment at the company two years ago, around the very time Nash had conveniently disappeared.

Of course, considering the last time Arthur had run into either members of the two man team he had shoved them off the side of a building in dream space and proceeded to hijack the Extraction while Cobb took the idea for a different client, there would have been no possible way for him to know this information, but since Eames did he was prepared to employ it.

There was a small chance Nash had hired a different Deceiver and used Cole as a foil, but The Forger highly doubted it. He suspected Nash's angle- it wasn't too hard to assume a Cobol employee could forge into Yusuf in a dream and trick the team into all sorts of things.

Now he only had to find a way to warn Arthur and Ariadne…. And she was so happy….


	25. A Forger and a Thief

Eames was by no means a coward. He was, after all, both a Forger and a Thief in the dream world, two of the most dangerous jobs as a profession.

Before he had been a Dreamer, Eames had actually studied Theatre at the Conservatory of Theatre in Ireland. He had developed boh prodigious skill in both character study and inhaling large qualitites of alcoholic beverages. His Junior level he had been introduced to a rather wealthy local named Swansen, who had introduced him to the underground gambling scene.

He had dropped out of school after gambling away his school money and instead spent his days being lost in the murk. Swansen got caught counting cards at a casino, and had split with the money while turning Eames in to the establishment's security.

Eames, barely twenty, had been severely beaten and thrown out of the casino, but with no money or transportation he had gone back in and begged for a job. The casino refused to hire him, but the Security Officer happened to have a son his age named Teddy. Teddy and Eames became inseparable, teaching each other the skills of their trade- Teddy, as the son of a cop-turned-security-officer, taught Eames to fight and shoot; and Eames taught Teddy how to count cards and charm ladies.

Several years later the two were working a table in a glamorous casino Stateside when Teddy had been shot during a robbery. Eames had spent the evening with a lovely and graceful Frenchwoman who introduced him to Edith Piaf and told fantastic stories about places she'd seen. Shots had rang out and Eames had turned in time to see Teddy fall to the floor. He had been caught in the crossfire.

The woman had grabbed Eames by the wrist and insisted he leave with her- "because of the danger". They had ran through the casino and out into the night, swallowed by the glittering lights of the City of Sin.

Eames had cried, tears streaming down his face, and the woman called Mal had held him to her and let him cry.

The first time Eames had met Cobb was later that night, in an airport that seemed bright and clean and dreamlike; unreal. Eames had stumbled alongside Mal, who had purchased two tickets and gotten them both onto a plane while he was still dazed and in shock.

At the last possible minute before takeoff, a man in a suit and wearing a wedding ring had bustled onto the plane and sat down with a huff, his eyes roaching wildly. Mal had taken his larger hand in both of her own and whispered comforting things to him in her native language. He had shaken his head and continued to look about, long past the seatbelt light had turned off. Finally, he leaned back in his seat, loosened his tie, and turned to Eames.

Mal had explained, rubbing Eames' shoulder comfortingly. She introduced him as her husband Dom Cobb, an architect. Eames had simply sat there, stunned.

As he left the airport, stepping into the bright sun of the dry African continent, Cobb had handed him a business card and told him to contact him if he ever wanted a job. Mal had done one better and invited him to dinner whenever he wanted.

He had gone to dinner a gambler; more boy than man, broke and beaten down, but he had left a Thief, filled with dreams and ambition once again.

A Thief was technically below an Extractor, though the job was much more difficult than Extracting. Thieves stole information- permanently, ripping it out of the subconscious whilst covering their tracks. It was called Eradication by the experts, and illegal almost everywhere.

Before Cobb and Mal had returned to France, they had encouraged Eames to purchase supplies and a personal PASIV and practice while they were gone- when they had a job they would return for him.

He had wandered Mombassa and found Yusuf, an aspiring Chemist with delusions of grandeur. The two had become acquaintances, and after Yusuf had learned about his theatre background had diligently shifted through his list of contacts (no small feat- he seemed to know everyone) and discovered through a friend of a friend's friend (as it often was in the business) there was a man who could change his appearance in dreams without bringing attention to the strangeness of the dream. He had used mirrors.

Eames had dreamed a Hall of mirrors- from ceiling to walls, walls to floor, and spent ten hours real time until he had Teddy's eyes.

Yet even when he had finally mastered the appearance, something seemed off. He wasn't Teddy- he just looked like him. So he packed his suitcase and traveled to France, asking only for a place to stay. He had discussed with Mal his Mombassa adventures, and she had promptly sent him to her Father, who informed him Forgery was a legitimate skill and handed him several papers on the subject.

Eames had of course skipped he sections on the psychological process behind it and gone straight to the parts that discussed what Forgery could do.

Later, after Fischer, he would go back and wonder why he too hadn't gone insane. He had loved Teddy as a brother, and yet no projections haunted him. He had never lost himself in the dream world, never forgotten his identity. So he had gone to America exactly five months three weeks and four days after the Inception and knocked on Miles' door, begging for answers.

Miles had said most Forgers wanted to be someone else- were ashamed or scared or simply unhappy. They used that want to fuel their desire and actually became the identity they had taken on, losing themselves.

And as for Teddy- Cobb had taken a deep breath and told Eames how Mal had really died. Neither had said anything after that because there was nothing to say. But Eames had understood.

No, Eames was not a coward. But he couldn't bring himself to Ariadne Yusuf was really dead.

**AN- this was written on my iPod in the hallway of my English building. Skill. Anyway, I'm taking a break from what's happening now to go back to what's happening then. I want this to be a really full, rich story.**

**Well, actually my ultimate goal is to make my O.C. somehow fanon, but let's be real- that's not gonna happen.**


	26. Out the Window

Dom Cobb had never been so awestruck in his life. The beauty and elegance his professor's daughter possessed literally took his breath again. Exotic eyes, creamy skin, a flirtatious smile- already Mallorie had lost her childhood innocence but retained that inexplicable sweetness, though it was now tempered by her experiences in the adult world.

Professor Miles had simply let out a gruff "hmpffhh" and left them to it, already wise and knowledgeable. Mal had smiled alluringly and prepared to take Dom on the most enjoyable tour of the Louvre any man had ever taken.

He was new to the college, new to Paris- an American in a foreign city with all the ideas and assumptions of any American man. He had latched onto Miles; an expatriate in the City of Love, who happened to be teaching upper level architecture classes but more than willing to mentor younger students in the major.

When Cobb had mentioned in passing he had yet to see the Louvre, Miles had snorted and shaken his head; pressing the eraser into the offending line and obliterating its presence from the known universe.

"The Louvre is for tourists, Dom," He had said, smiling kindly at the younger man. "I thought you came here to be an Architect."

"Someone had to build the Louvre, though." Dom argued, sitting in the first row of the otherwise empty classroom. "it's an impressive piece of architecture."

"I've seen better," Miles had said by way of a dismissal.

Yet he had invited Cobb to join him that weekend for a tour of the Louvre. And while the tone was sarcastic, the invitation was genuine, and Cobb found himself face to face with greatest work of art he had ever seen.

They were both still children, really, even though he was 18 and she 19, both still possessing a sense of hope, and dreams, and great imaginations that many of their peers had set aside, deeming the traits childish. When Mal had told him about Miles' secret job- dreaming, he had simply believed her, because she had meant it, and it was too fantastic to be false.

They had ganged up on Miles, together, and demanded he let them see what dreams looked like awake. Mal had gone so far as to argue she was the favorite child, a practice she had never before stooped so low to employ. Dom had backed her, saying all sorts of things about architecture practice and physics and design and exploration. Miles had been unable to say no to the bright eyes and harmless pleading, and given in with good grace.

Cobb had stolen his first kiss from his future wife in the dream, standing in an art museum under a large mural of a boat sinking, crested foam crashing against the blue hull. Later Mal would stand on a chair in the coat closet of her home and reach for the art supplies her mother had shoved out of the way, bringing them down and setting up her easel in front of the wide bay windows, painting waves crashing against a boat.

And many years later Arthur would bring a delicate and slender finger up to touch the hull of the boat on the painting and tell her it was much too unrealistic a shade of blue- no boat of that size and stature would ever be that color. Mal would make a face and chastise him for his manners, and tease him about a variety of things, and if he was a lover he would understand, but did not the ladies of France go for the British over the American every time? She had then twisted the knife even further and told him he was turning more and more into Eames every day.

From that point on Arthur would never, ever say anything less than complimentary about Mal, boats, or the color blue, even when he thought internally she was ridiculous, or it wouldn't float, or it was the most hideous shade of periwinkle he'd ever laid eyes on.

After that kiss, nothing much had been said when they returned, but the two young adults often joined Miles for explorations of the subconscious. Cobb was especially adept at building, which was his downfall- the projections were quick to swarm to him. Mal was less bad, but more so- loudly exclaiming in delight and looking out of place everywhere- but the spirit of the French was in her, and her passionate scolding when Cobb tried too hard made Miles' tea time far more enjoyable. He decided to teach them to fight- protect themselves from the projections, because trying to hold Cobb back when Mal was considered was futile. It was all for Mal, Miles could tell- as much as Cobb loved the architecture, and exploration of it all, he had connected it with the woman beside him, for better or for worse.

Miles figured, as the father, he could do much worse, and probably not a whole lot better. Dom took after himself in a lot of ways, and though Mal was trying to be coy and hard to get (it was his blasted ex-wife coming out in her, he just _knew_) it was clear she was just as infatuated with him. Dom and Mal –and dreaming- seemed to all go hand and hand and fit just so.

Mal was a natural at fighting- bursting in to a fray for her…_whatever _Dom was (Miles decided it was better not to know)…and not leaving him for any reason. Dom, while skilled, was much more cool and detached about it- he didn't take it personally, the way Mal did.

He didn't ask Miles' permission before he proposed. After Mal graduated from University, she went back to her mother's house, spending her days painting, singing, lounging about and glaring menacingly at her mother, who kept insisting she spend her evenings on the arm of a parade of men, all who wore fine shirts and had nice watches and weren't Dom. It was all champagne and cologne and hushed politics, and Mal decided then and there if she was going to be a socialite she should just jump out the window right then and there.

Miles wasn't sure who felt the loss of his daughter more- him or Dom. Afternoons were quiet, and the PASIV stayed tucked away. Yet after a while, Miles noticed Dom eyeing the device somewhat longingly. He was still a young man after all, craving adventure. Miles was not. So he called a colleague- one who knew someone who worked in the military and had been in the dream share program since its inception.

Dom left Paris without a backward glance (though he did shake Miles hand and sigh a little heartsick over the continued absence of his…_whatever_). Mal was not his girlfriend. The term girlfriend was too…it didn't mean anything. It didn't fit his Mal, who was above such possessive and meaningless terms anyway. She was his everything.

But while Miles had sent Dom away for Architecture, his new mentor saw an even greater potential- that of an Extractor. He wasn't a perfect fit for it, being always an Architect first, but he had many of the qualities, characteristics, and certainly a willingness to learn. The lucrative side of things was also quite appealing, as he came to find out, and came in handy.

While Mal was fending off dates left and right, Dom was taking jobs, small and nearby at first, but soon expanding, building up a repertoire as a young and brilliant Extraction. He spent roughly a year involved in small time espionage, under the tutelage of Miles' contact, before returning to France a man. On a mission, no less.

He had sent a letter to Miles, informing his mentor he was coming home and hinting at things to come. Miles, wisely, said nothing, but instead phoned his daughter and told her to come back to Paris.

Her mother told her not to go; it was high time she got married and become the socialite her mother had always wanted her to be. But Mal was adamant to return to the city of love, and dreams, and she packed her suitcase, dressed sharply, and went to her father, not sure of what to expect and knowing full well her hopes would be crushed when her beloved Dom was not there.

He wasn't there when she returned, and she _did _go to her room and have a good cry, but there was a feeling in the air nevertheless that boded well for her, and she came out feeling refreshed and curious. Miles encouraged the feeling, seeing that it did her well and was probably true anyway, until she felt that she was waiting for something, and what she wasn't sure, but that her life was changing and it was all about to begin.

He wanted to grow old with her; to be together forever. He was hers and she was his- each was half of the whole. It was surprisingly romantic for Dom, who had a philosophical streak but wasn't one for expressing emotion. He'd walked in the door- she'd happened to have been in the kitchen. He'd called out a greeting, expecting Miles- there'd been the sound of breaking glass and a girly shriek. He'd barely had time to drop his luggage before she was on him, throwing her arms around him and kissing him everywhere she could reach.

He'd gathered her into her arms and stilled her lips with a finger; an intense and serious expression on his face she'd never had the pleasure of seeing before. He was determined; she was frightened. Suddenly, an irrational fear that he was breaking up with her struck her mind. Or maybe he was telling her he'd found a different girl.

He didn't drop to his knee- it wasn't him- but he reached into the pocket off his suit (it was only now she realized he'd been wearing one) and pulled out a small black velvet box, resting it in the palm of his hand and turning those beautiful burning blue eyes on her. She was quiet; she carefully picked up the innocent box like it was one of her father's fragile glass birds he kept in the study. He placed a hand over hers, stilling her.

"Don't open it yet," He said. "I-I-I love you."

Only one other word was spoken after he finished his proposal. Mallorie threw her arms around his neck and gave him a searing kiss- full of love, and passion, and tenderness, and possessiveness, and a bit of want too, which was rather awkward when Miles came home from the University to see his two dearest protégées still entwined next to the front door.

Mal had opened her mouth- she had no idea what to say, and whatever courageous attitude Dom had in dreams clearly hadn't crossed over to reality- but Miles had simply placed his hat on the hat rack and brushed past them on the way to the kitchen for a glass of considerably strong brandy.

"It's about time," Was all he said. "Now would either of you like a drink?"


	27. Not Much Time

**AN- Honestly, if I really was Chris I wouldn't be writing fan fiction. I'd be talking to Leo and Ellen right now and coming up with roles for them in the Dark Knight Rises, because at this point you may as well finish strong right? Seriously. When I saw Marion was joining the cast I screamed, out loud, with unadulterated glee. She needs to just pop that baby out and start filming. LEGGO! Also, I really like the flashbacks and stuff, so I'm changing this story a little to include that stuff at times. I mean, it's still about the new job that's coming up but it'll be much deeper and relatable I think. So here we go- present time, for the moment.**

**Also, to those of you who have reviewed…wow, but I just love you guys. Thanks so much for making my day!**

Eames folded his arms across his chest and watched the scene unfold before him. The warehouse was already looking less dusty and more familiar, and the afternoon sunlight filtering through gave the place an almost optimistic look. Arthur sat on the hard wooden chair, elbows on his knees, a thoughtful, far-way look on his face. Ariadne reclined on a lawn chair near him, watching him with concern and waiting for him to speak. Nash had left with a nod for each of them, waving to his guards to join him as well.

He wasn't sure how long all three of them had stayed frozen like that, feeling like they couldn't talk, but at some point when the sunlight had turned golden Arthur loosened his tie.

"No sedation." He said, breaking the silence and meeting Eames' gaze. "He's been trained and Ariadne's not-"

"I'm coming with you." She exclaimed, sitting up. "Arthur, you have to let me come in with you-"

"No one's saying you can't come in with us," Eames chastised her, looking back to Arthur for confirmation. Arthur pursed his lips and looked guiltily towards Ariadne, who was looking amazed and more than a little angry.

"No, wait, don't get mad, Ariadne- I wasn't going to say you couldn't come into the dream. But you haven't been trained yet, and you'd be a liability if we had sedation. We can't risk Limbo on this assignment."

"Stating the obvious, as usual," Eames said dryly, pulling out a chair and sitting down on it, crossing his arms over the back and leaning into it. "Any ideas for this?"

"I think one level should be a hotel," Ariadne said immediately. Arthur's head snapped up. Amusement, embarrassment, amazement, and exasperation all seemed to combine on his face somehow in an expression Eames would never forget. The Forger grinned – almost a leer, and Ariadne blushed but rolled her eyes and ploughed onward.

"Oh, grow up," She huffed, swatting at Eames. He simply chortled slightly at the way both of them continued to look at him and avoid eye contact with each other. "They're easy to design, perfect for mazes, and I can add in a safe."

"It could work," Arthur said thoughtfully, making a note of it in the notebook. "Usually for extractions like these we have one level as close to reality as possible- maybe his office or apartment- a coffeehouse he goes to before work every morning-"

"-A night club he frequents-"Eames interjected with enthusiasm. Ariadne made a face.

"He's hardly the type to go to night clubs; Eames is just brainstorming off of past ideas we've used before," Arthur assured the Architect, sending a glare Eames' way. Eames simply shrugged innocently, waving his hands about in the air as he argued the point.

"If Ariadne's going to continue to work, Arthur, she has to be able to complete any assignment when the Team needs her to, despite personal preferences or feeling uncomfortable with the task. You can't continue to shelter her like this if you want her to survive."

Arthur leapt to his feet, enraged, and both Eames and Ariadne fell back in shock. His cool and collected mask was gone- replaced by a ferocious and burning stare.

"There is a difference between sheltering someone and showing them basic respect and decency. We're supposed to be taking this assignment seriously, Eames, not coming up with ridiculous ideas based on our own personal preference and riling up the Team. Take it seriously, or go home, because you're not helping, you're not funny, and I don't have time for this right now."

"You both need to calm down," Ariadne interrupted, springing up and standing between them, a hand held out to each of them. Neither pointed out that she was no match for their strength, training, and combat expertise, and Ariadne appreciated it.

"You're right." Eames said, turning to Arthur almost accusingly. "We need to be focusing on the job, and being professional."

Arthur eyed the hand placed on his chest almost suspiciously before shooting his companion a critical glare. Yet when Eames extended a hand in peace, he took it, causing Ariadne to sigh in relief and sit back down. She clasped her hands together and waited patiently. Eames straddled his chair and sat down again. Arthur took a little longer, choosing instead to cross over to the PASIV and fiddle around with it- his back to the rest of the Team and face hidden.

"If this is going to work," Arthur said slowly, "if we're going to extract this from him, we're going to need to pull off the hardest job ever- he's been trained, he's aware of extraction, he's participated in it, and he's going to recognize us. We're going to be using a new extractor, working with someone who wants to kill us, and going at least two layers deep without sedation. There are no safeties or fallbacks for this mission- we're relying on skill and preparation."

"What exactly are we supposed to be extracting?" Ariadne asked in that dry way of hers, cocking her head to the side. She had been using Arthur's journal to sketch out a basic hotel layout at the time, focusing on her portion of the job.

"Peter Browning has hired us to Extract Fischer's plans for the company so that he can counteract them. He wants Fischer to reform Fischer-Morrow and take the energy conglomeration to the top again."

"Would that mean…"

"It wouldn't affect the Inception, no," Arthur answered shortly, turning back around and facing her. "Nobody outside of our team knows it's successful, or that we employed it on Fischer. Nash and Browning don't understand the psychological components needed to modify Fischer's behavior- if this Extraction is successful it will barely affect the Subject, let alone undo something placed so deep and securely into his conscious thoughts."

"We call jobs like these 'smokescreens'." Eames explained amiably- Arthur backed him up with a nod. "The job actually will have no effect, but the client will believe it will. By the time it falls through, we've taken the money or run."

"That's-"

"Sometimes, Ariadne, a client wants to know something too dangerous or classified. It's about protecting things- just because you can use extraction doesn't mean you always should. For instance, had Fischer's father still been alive, it's possible he could have convinced Fischer to disband the company simply by telling him to. Naturally, inception occurs when someone you respect or admire gives you an idea, and you accept it, and then employ it. It's part of human interaction. But because of the business world, the dream industry is a short cut to that."

"So then why is it so dangerous if we're just faking it?"

"Well, for one, we're not faking it. We're going to perform it, because that's what we've been hired to do, and Nash will very likely be joining us. For another, the subconscious won't distinguish between faking it and actually doing it. So we'll still be in danger. I'm going to teach you and the new Extractor how to defend yourselves to the best of my abilities, but we don't have a lot of time."


	28. Results

"You're fucking with me," Browning growled into the phone, loosening his tie and glaring at his glass of scotch like it was personally responsible for his problems in life. "There is no way in hell Fischer is hosting a charity gala- we need that money to buy out Forster-Price-Cooper Associates; they've reopened the market for that deal on pipeline and-"

"-what do you mean he turned down placing a bid for it? Put him on the line, right now, I have to-"

"-I don't care if he told you not to let me through; I'm in charge of this company and I need to speak with him, he's making a giant mistake and if he doesn't fix-"

"-I don't give a damn if you're sorry, put me on the line now or you're fired!"

Long pause.

"What do you mean he says I can't fire you? I demand you hand him the phone this in-"

Disconnected. Browning slammed the phone onto the bar, slammed back his entire glass, and ran a hand through his hair, dragging it across his face in pure frustration. He was losing his chokehold, and fast. Fischer had surprised him with a new company direction- philanthropy, headed by _Peter Browning_, the greatest in corporate arm twisting, litigation, and taking a dirty approach to getting whatever he wanted, unscrupulously. And now he was reduced to _charity work_. Fischer had demanded he attend a gala in Paris in a month to help usher in a new era in the Fischer Legacy.

_Well_, Browning thought with a grin, if Fischer _insisted _he come along to the gala, he may as well bring a few friends. In fact, as far as the businessman was concerned, the young heir had just brought about his own downfall.

He found the number in his phone easily, and had merely smiled sinisterly in satisfaction.

"You have a month," Was all he said. "I want results."

**AN, this was supposed to be short. I figured we should check back in, yeah?**


	29. Monday Introspective

**AN The last day before the extractor. Today's another short chapters into one big chapter- last chapter should have been in this too, but oh well. Next chapter will be a flashback, and there might be another flashback chapter, but then we should be at Tuesday, and at least find out who the new extractor is. So enjoy.**

Monday

Fischer stared out the window at all the cars below, thoughts heavy. The weight of the world seemed to be hanging off his shoulders. He had never felt so alone, so utterly lonely. As a corporate heir, his friends had almost always often been the sons of executives his father worked with, or schoolmates from the private boarding schools he had attended back in Australia. Yet slowly, he had spent more and more time near his declining father's beside, and his acquaintances had drifted off into business ventures and careers and families. He had stayed.

Now wasn't really a good time, he knew, but he sort of wished there was someone to share his accomplishments with. He was the last of the Fischers and was well aware he was expected to carry on the line somehow.

Or at the very least, he needed a friend. His secretary had just informed him a very irate and drunken sounding Peter Browning was on the line, demanding to talk to him.

Fischer had known Browning for a very long time. He had joined his Father's company when Fischer was about two, and slowly worked his way up the ranks by his brutal and tough stance on company progress and success. By the time Fischer was ten, he had become a close family friend. When his mother became sick, and found religion, also demanding her son be baptized, Maurice had chosen his right hand man as the Godfather. Though admittedly, he had hoped his son would go to him for business practices and advice on running the company than religious questions, Maurice had meant well.

Browning, Robert was starting to see, did not. He found pleasure in being cruel and unethical to get his way, was immoral, unscrupulous, and self-congratulatory when he really contributed nothing. He was quick to find money in everything, and had almost no feelings of family, friends, or personal loyalty, as far as Fischer could tell. He assumed he had hidden this side of him from Maurice, who was a good person, though changed from the death of his wife and the control he needed for the company to succeed. Now, however, it was all coming out. Fischer decided attending a charity gala could be good for him, and instructed the secretary to inform him his presence was being demanded.

Fischer went back to looking out the window, refreshed and more confident in life than ever before. His father had never tried to reform the old scoundrel- yet again, he was fulfilling the late Maurice's wishes and building something for himself.

Robert thought that maybe, if his mother and religion had been correct, his father could see him now; and was looking down on him with the pride and fondness he had had trouble expressing to his son in life. Surely, the Fischer name had found more success at last.

Dom Cobb lifted James from the car seat with a careful and graceful skill acquired from handling explosives and sensitive information. The booster seat made for some awkward getting out of the car, but James didn't mind his father picking him up. Phillipa had already scampered off, pink backpack blazing like a beacon, barely waving to her father before heading inside to school. Today, Dom knew, was the Spelling Bee day, and she was quite excited- she had run into his room at six this morning asking him how one properly spelled 'malicious'.

James, on the other hand, let his father stand by the car for a minute, clearly deep in thought, before tugging gently on his hand.

"Dad," He said patiently. His father often became quiet and _introspective_- his grandpa had taught Phillipa that word for the spelling bee, and when James had asked what was wrong with dad she had sighed and rolled her eyes and told him he was being 'introspective'.

"You don't even know what that means!" He had yelled at her. She had huffed and put a hand on her hip.

"Do too. It means thinking about Mom. Miles told me."

Actually, Miles had told her it was when a person thought about things that were dear to them. But he had used his son-and-law as the example, and the second definition had stuck.

"Hmm?" Dom asked, coming out of his reverie and breaking into his son's own attempt at being introspective.

"I'm going to school now, okay?" He asked worriedly. His father seemed very lonely, and he didn't like leaving him alone for so long (well, actually, he didn't like school, but he knew the first excuse made grandma sniff and give him chocolate, so he used it frequently), but his father simply smiled at him and waved him off.

"Have fun." Was all he said, stepping into the car. James sighed and trudged towards his least favorite building in the world, knowing his father wouldn't drive away until he'd seen James head inside.

Eames stood in front of a mirror, gesturing rapidly, speaking articulately. Ariadne cocked her head to the side, placing the large white cardboard box filled with crepes on the edge of Arthur's desk and stepping closer to observe. She had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a red coat belted to her frame.

Arthur looked up from the whiteboard. He had spent the last ten minutes attempting to write, but with each movement the markers had squeaked. For four minutes (after the first squeak Eames had checked his watch and started betting himself when the Point Man would give up) he had huffed and rolled his eyes and growled slightly. At the six minute thirty second mark, he gave up, throwing the marker to the floor and throwing himself into a lawn chair, covering his face with hand and running a hand through his gelled hair.

And at eight minutes and twenty two seconds he quickly stood back up, retrieved the marker, and carefully set it on the sill under the whiteboard.

He had then spent the rest of the time staring at it introspectively, only looking away when Ariadne entered the warehouse.

"Morning," He said politely, nodding at the Architect. He debated adding a small smile to it, but with Eames watching like a hawk it seemed unwise. She quickly grinned back at him before turning her attention to the Forger.

"Good morning to you too, Eames," She said loudly, teasing him. Eames met her eyes in the mirror and grinned back at her gleefully.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice me," He said, turning away from his work and reaching for a crepe. She smacked his hand away.

"Not till we're allowed to have them," She chastised him, turning toward Arthur for confirmation. He shook his head, a small smile playing about his face.

"Take your coat off," He told the young architect. "I'm taking you under to plan the Extractor test. Eames, keep working. We need just as good a Browning as you had before."

"We're using Browning?" Ariadne asked in confusion. Arthur nodded.

"Nash called a few minutes ago- Browning wants us to go under in a month, at a charity gala. I told Nash we could make that deadline, so we have to get started now."

"No, but…"

"Two reasons, darling," Eames said, taking her messenger bag for her and grunting. "Bloody hell, what's in this?"

"Papers. I have to grade them for tomorrow." Eames promptly opened the bag and removed a think manila folder full of slightly creased and wrinkled papers, holding them up to the light and examining. Ariadne watched him in amused bewilderment for a moment.

"The first is that Fischer spent the most time with Eames in the dream, meaning he's got a connection with him we can exploit. But also, he spent the most time with Eames undisguised, meaning if we want to get away with this Eames needs to hide himself. The second is that Browning and Fischer have a relationship we can use to our advantage. Plus, Eames is rather good at forging, and usually dreamers try to employ Forgers whenever and wherever they can. They're considered extremely valuable members of the team."

"That's stupid," Ariadne said without thinking. "The Point Man does all the real work. And the Architect built the dream- that's important."

"Yes, well," Arthur began, rubbing the bag of his neck and looking faintly embarrassed. Eames looked delighted. "I wouldn't disagree with you at all, but really, it's the Extractor we have to worry about."

"Oh, right," Ariadne agreed, blushing and stripping off her coat. "I was thinking we use the same dream of the building we use, and then from there opening to a series of paradoxical staircases every which way, that connect to a catwalk with climbing equipment."

"Building you use?" Eames repeated in flustered confusion. Ariadne froze and turned toward him.

"Yes?" She asked, perplexed. "Why…"

"Drop it," Arthur advised, pulling up his sleeves and drawing out the needle packs. He was well aware of what Eames thought they were using the building for, but was adverse to telling Ariadne. "He's just being Eames."

"Oh…" She said lamely, laying back and moving her head, trying to get comfortable. Her eyes never left Arthur, who bent down to attach the needle to her wrist.

"OH!" She explained sharply, and Arthur immediately straightened up and looked to her face.

"Are you alright?" He said quickly, reaching for the needle, "Did I apply it wrong?"

She snatched her wrist away and looked towards Eames. "I know what you meant!" She exclaimed loudly, glaring at him. Eames let out a chuckle and waved Arthur towards his own chair.

"Good night, sleeping Beauty and the beast," He said jovially, deploying the button and watching his companions sink into a shared dream. He grinned to himself and returned to his mirror, shaking his head at his two friends.


	30. Innocent College Student

**A.N. I didn't realize the 17****th**** was JGL's birthday, but it was, and so I'd like to dedicate the last chapter to him. I am now depressed I'm an 18 year old girl in love with a 30 year old man who probably won't ever be in the same state as me, let alone ever meet him.**

**Wow, that is extremely depressing. Anyway, I did take the time to wish him happy birthday on twitter. 140 characters has never made me seem so stupid.**

**Siiiigh. I saw How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Looooved it. I also have a paper due tomorrow I haven't started yet; that's next, but really, why try in school when you write fan fiction? (That was sarcasm) I decided to just add the Extractor now because I'm not sure what Arthur/Ariadne/and Nash's back stories are yet, and I haven't thought of a really good extraction for the old team to go on.**

"This shouldn't take us very long," Arthur reassured Ariadne, snapping the silver briefcase shut. He had placed it between them on the front row of desks and was fiddling with the locking system. Ariadne cleared her throat and tugged on the sleeves of the red jacket she had often worn during the Fischer case. "Eames doesn't really even need to be here," He added, swinging his head to peek over Ariadne's shoulder. He sighed. "What are you doing _now_?"

Eames jerked upwards, smacking his head on the underside of the desk and cursing enthusiastically. Arthur rolled his eyes to the heavens and shook his head. Ariadne had to stifle a laugh- biting down on her bottom lip. Arthur composed himself almost immediately and lowered his gaze to Ariadne, taking in the demure downward cast of her eyes and her teeth sinking into the plump, luscious shape of her lips he had felt once before.

"What's this?" Eames asked in confusion, holding a paper upside down. Arthur and Ariadne both jumped at the sound- Ariadne whirling to see the Forger, and Arthur leaning far over to see around the Architect. Eames shook the paper twice, as if by doing so he could change the image, and then twisted his wrists so he could see the back of it. In turning the page, Ariadne recognized the design as Sheepish's staircase from last week, and the stair lesson. She made a move to snatch it away from him but he turned away from her and held the paper higher.

"Arthur, take a look at this," He said, showing it to the Point Man, who gave his customary glare of displeasure to Eames and stuffed his hands in the pocket of his long coat. "No, seriously, look at this." Arthur grudgingly plucked the paper from the Forger and studied it carefully for a second.

"It's not bad," He said, with guarded admiration. "It's not bad at all, really."

"Yes, well," Ariadne snapped, yanking the paper from Arthur and smacking Eames on the back of the head. "Stop touching my stuff."

"Did you draw it?" Eames asked curiously, attempting to exchange a loaded glare with Arthur, only to be shot down as the Point Man studiously ignored his gaze.

"No," Ariadne blushed. What Eames was attempting to implicate was obvious; and she didn't like it one bit. Why was it so hard for him to believe that she and Arthur were simply platonic coworkers who admired the work and dedication they both put in, and enjoyed discussing the subtleties of their job?

"Would this particular student be any good at Extraction?" Arthur asked carefully, slipping into the desk chair Ariadne rarely used (preferring to stand at the board or walk among her students). Eames leaned to one side, perching on the corner of her desk and waiting with folded hands. Ariadne cocked her head towards the side and tried to be impartial for a moment.

"Probably not," She judged. "He's more of an Architect."

Eames gave a very tight, controlled smile. "Well, you two seem to have things in hand here," His voice was the crisp and casual tone only Eames could pull off. He slid off the desk and headed for the door. "I'm headed to the warehouse- I'll set up for the test and all, get some practice with Browning in, maybe head out to lunch…there's an excellent little café just south of the bridge with a delightful looking pastry selection."

Ariadne blinked in surprise as Arthur managed to wave once at Eames' retreating figure. He caught her look of surprise and grinned.

"You can't tell me you wanted Eames here too," He said in a low voice, holding back a chuckle. Ariadne smirked.

"I think you and Eames are actually friends, and you just enjoy torturing each other."

"Eames and I have known each other for a very long time. We've had friendly _moments_, but I would say you and I are much closer friends than he and I."

"He and I…really?"

"Excuse me for valuing proper grammar and vocabulary." He smiled and clutched the side of the desk, rolling himself closer to her. "Hi."

"Hi," She said, suddenly breathless in the stillness of the room. He was very, very close.

"Don't worry about today at all," He reassured her, very slowly and hesitating reaching out to cover her knee with his hand. He squeezed it gently, reassuringly, not looking at her.

Her breath seemed to leave in a whoosh, and the air in the room seemed to suddenly be swallowed up. Shockwaves- little crawling tendrils of heat- were emanating from her knee. She tried to keep her breathing shallow and unnoticeable.

Arthur silently wheeled closer to her, sliding his hand down her leg and closing it around her ankle. He rubbed circles into her leg with his thumb, still as quiet and solemn as ever.

"Is this okay?" He asked huskily, noticing her slight tremble.

"Yeah," She said lowly, not trusting her voice. "It's okay."

He nodded and continued to caress her lower leg, looking up at meeting her steady gaze. His warm eyes seemed to go on forever, drawing her in, burning with an intensity and passion that made her heart soar into her throat.

She reached down and clutched at his hand, entwining her fingers with his and locking their hands together. He brought his other hand up to cover her own, and they simply stared at each other in silence.

Finally, with a sigh, Arthur gently untangled his long fingers from her hand and set his feet firmly on the floor, pushing back and letting the chair glide until it hit the back wall. Ariadne blushed and turned away from him, hopping off her perch and fluffing out her hair as she moved to the classroom door.

Students started to trickle into the classroom, some oblivious in candy colored headphones, others studiously ignoring Ariadne in an attempt to look absorbed in their textbook or notebook (Ariadne, as a former Architecture student herself, knew this to be a lie- her notes certainly weren't that exciting, and she was under the impression college textbooks only existed so that people would still exercise just a little, lugging the heavy tomes around. But they certainly had very little practical application). Some, on noticing Arthur, began to look speculative, and the girls a little interested.

Trevors did a straight double-take, before haughtily slipping into his seat and eyeing Arthur almost competitively. Ariadne risked a half glance back to the point man and was surprised to see his smirk- he seemed to be finding the situation humorous.

Shounders lugged his backpack up to his normal spot and deposited it on the desk with a flourish and a loud noise that echoed around the classroom. He pulled out his laptop and perched it on his knees, turning his head to one side and giving Ariadne his full attention, though there were still fifteen minutes left before class.

Sheepish scuttled in with ten minutes till class started, keeping his head low but sending a small smile Ariadne's way. She returned it apologetically and turned to the board, pausing and stumbling momentarily when Arthur still hadn't moved.

He gave her an expectant and slightly teasing smile, and Ariadne realized –_oh God_- she had to teach in front of him. She cleared her throat and shooed him away from the board, trying to ignore the many knowing glances the students were exchanging. (Except they were all wrong, she thought a little viciously. _Because we haven't done anything yet._)

"Alright," She said, clearly her throat. "Homework to the front left of the room, same as always. Get out a piece of paper and straight-edge for the quiz." She was met with a collective groan. "Oh, I know, a quiz on a Tuesday, how terrible!" Laughter. She tried not to smile too smugly in front of Arthur, though it was a significant challenge. "I know guys. But I was grading your tests this weekend," (Arthur's eyebrows shot upwards- when on earth had she found time to grade tests?) "and the quizzes actually did help. So we do this real fast, I throw in some extra credit points because we all know everyone in this class could use them (even you Dylan), take some notes, and get out of here. Sound like a plan?"

Mutters, nods, a few groans- still, there was a sense of agreement in the air. Score.

She handed out the quizzes carefully, counting the students in each row and thumbing through the papers for an exact number. She ended in the upper right hand corner of the room, gazing down on her many pupils and scanning the room quickly to see who was doing the worst at cheating unobtrusively.

Surprisingly, her quick eyes didn't catch much, and she took her time coming back down the rows, feeling at peace with the world for a moment. She loved when the sunlight came in through the windows, the gleam in the wooden rows and amplified seating. She loved the scratch of pens on the paper, the quiet concentration saturating the air, the peace and stillness of a calm and collected logical setting.

She moved across the floor of the room, intending to collect the staircase drawings, but the sight of Arthur standing at her desk with a sheaf of drawing paper pulled her up short. She moved toward him and reached for the pages, but he held them above his head and smirked at the way her face turned stern.

"This is unprofessional," She hissed in protest. He grinned, conceding her point, and stuffed the drawings into his briefcase. She tried to protest again; but he silenced her with a look.

"It's between several candidates," He said, moving closer to her and breathing directly into her ear. She strove to keep her expression neutral. Yet when he placed a hand on the small of her back, drawing her closer into his side, and pressed his lips to her earlobe for a moment she couldn't escape the tremor that ran through her. "You're okay," He said reassuringly, "It's just me."

"Who and who?" She asked, trying her hardest to be as near silent as possible. Arthur's sharp eyes scanned the classroom again.

"I need to narrow it down more," He moved away from her and pulled the chair up to behind the desk, settling behind it and gazing out at the students. Ariadne rolled her eyes, but when the silence stretched on and she realized he really wasn't going to tell her, she settled onto her desk with good grace and waited patiently, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. It was a calming technique she'd never been a fan of until takeoff at the Paris airport on the way to Sydney, when she'd discovered four years without flying had messed up her confidence in planes.

Students began to stand up and turn their tests in, some nodding, others smiling, and a few leaning around Ariadne to get a better look at the handsome man now…

"What are you doing?" Ariadne hissed, as the sound of keystrokes staccato short rippled through the lecture hall.

"Checking the roster," Arthur replied through his teeth. She turned toward him, alarmed.

"But the pass-"

They both paused, realizing that sentence didn't really need to be finished. A moment of wordless communication passed, and then he nodded and she turned back around.

Arthur had narrowed it down to several promising candidates, several of which showed actual potential. In the front row, a boy in a polo shirt and with a haircut Arthur immediately decided to call "the Douche-Bag" showed the confidence, lack of respect for the rules, and mischievous spirit that promised successful results. The downside- he seemed entirely too much like Eames, and the look he had given Arthur when he had first noticed the older man was far too appraising and disrespected for the Point Man's liking.

The second was the compulsively controlled student who had finished his quiz first. He had a fine work ethic, was extremely detail-oriented, and enjoyed structure, order, and a well-executed plan. According to his file he had superb grades but a lack of extra-curricular activities. He seemed too frigid and unbending to be an extractor, but Arthur hesitated to cross him off. He would be such an asset on the team…

The third was a rather unorthodox choice Arthur was seriously debating. It was a girl in the corner with mousy brown hair and off colored blue eyes- he could only tell because she had been staring off dreamily into space for several minutes. Her quiz lay forgotten beside her, pencil still poised mid-air. Most professional dreamers were fueled to exceed in the field by backgrounds that lended to the melodramatic- the dreams were both an escape and a chance to be a better version of themselves. Still, daydreamers and idealists did well in the legitimate sectors of the world.

The fourth was a boy in the corner who could only be described as 'Sheepish'. He was outwardly an average looking college student with an average confidence level, but his whole stance and lack of eye contact with those he perceived as above or below him led Arthur to assume he hadn't quite found his niche yet but was quite apologetic about it.

For the rest of the hour, Arthur observed, Ariadne taught, and the new Architect experienced their last hour as a law-abiding innocent college student.


	31. Work Placement

**AN. Hi. Still not Christopher Nolan. He has now used two of my childhood crushes in his movies though- Christian Bale (Who was Laurie in Little Women- I found that out at like 2 in the morning the other day, just about flipped, and then sighed dreamily because it's LAURIE, and JGL, who I have loved all my life.) Anyway, it's pronounced Rie, as in I **_**re-**_**gifted, or it's **_**rea**_**lly cold out.**

"Alright…" Ariadne knew it was time to dismiss the class, but she had no idea what she was supposed to do here, and Arthur's face was infuriating- smooth, completely expressionless, and not in the least bit helpful. She sighed, rolled her eyes to the heavens, and glanced at the clock again. Most of the students were already packing up, though she hadn't given them permission to. On most days, this would have irked her. But today, she breathed a sigh of relief for the brief respite. "Class dismissed," She said finally.

The students were up immediately, moving toward the door in mass exodus. Ariadne shuffled over to the board and began to very slowly erase the board, merely rubbing one corner with the eraser over and over again. She strained to hear the conversations- to hear Arthur's voice call out a student and ask them to stay. A 'work placement' opportunity, or something. Only, not exactly.

Not for the first time this morning Ariadne felt consecutive pains of guilt and regret, closely followed by an intense desire to call the whole thing off. She wondered if Professor Miles' had felt such conflict over letting her join the team- probably not, she thought wryly. Cobb could influence most people to do almost anything- the burning, fevered, passionate, intense stare and the whole my-wife-is-dead-and-I-can't-move-on tortured tragic hero, along with the sexiness of his power and control, could probably sway a lot of people. There was a brief time when even she would have admitted to having feelings that were a bit more interested than 'colleague' for him, but of course that was before she'd known there was such a thing as an Arthur in the world.

Of course, being stabbed by aforesaid mentioned wife was sort of an influencing factor as well. Not to mention Cobb's children. Ariadne had to repress a shudder even now. There was something about repressing your children's faces that left her feeling crawly and uncomfortable inside.

The room was near silent by now, and she realized Arthur must have left the room. Alarmed, she turned on her heel, but the classroom was empty. She sighed and attempted to wait for him, but after three minutes gave up and headed towards the briefcase, pulling out the latest assignment and plucking her red grading pen from its home behind her ear.

She sat in silence, scribbling notes of encouragement and sparing constructive criticism (it was an intro class) into the margins. Most students had clearly spent only a minimal effort on the task, but as Ariadne was mindlessly writing 'A-' at this point she didn't feel quite so bad.

She paused at Sheepish's new design, which seemed to be lacking the realism and depth of his original sketch. She paused, deep in thought, before crinkling up the paper and lobbing it into the trashcan. Satisfied, she retrieved the Penrose steps from her bottom drawer and wrote a firm, bold, scarlet 'A', placing it on the stack of completed papers and turning to the next one.

Arthur jogged down the steps, searching the hallway for signs of the student he sought. His quick gaze directed his eye to a large group of students from the class, milling about and discussing the quiz in loud, obnoxious tones, many fearing they had only received a low A. Arthur felt a pain inside when he realized he had once been as self-absorbed and stick-in-the-mud as them, and thanked the higher powers (not for the first time) Eames had met him after he had loosened up slightly. And while he still appreciated the underlying causes for their concern, he had decided long ago there were more important things in life than a high grade on a single quiz in an Intro class.

Sheepish was by the water fountain, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Polo Boy was chatting up a skirt wearing engineering student (_paradox,_ Arthur thought wryly) easily, leaning an arm on the wall behind her and smirking down at her flirtatiously. Shounders was hovering on the edge of the group for motives Arthur felt no need to get into (acceptance, undermining, later sabotage, an interest in the brunette presently speaking, comparing grades, about to brag, panicking others were just as talented- a combination of the above) and the girl had plunked herself down into a plushy and comfortable chair off in an alcove of the hall and was scribbling furiously _into a bright red moleskin notebook._

Seeing this last detail, Arthur decided to throw caution to the wind and follow his gut. Polo Boy would either A) be corrupted by Eames or B) annoy the shit out of he, Arthur, and probably ruin any moments Arthur managed to get with just Ariadne, Sheepish was A) clearly not Extractor material and B) …well, Arthur didn't really need a B here, but he enjoyed using one anyway, and Shounders was…well, probably an excellent Point Man but a massive prick.

Arthur rolled his eyes at the heavens, imploring the Fates to severely limit Eames time in the future (if there was a future) considering he was using words like _prick_.

That left the girl, who looked far too innocent and not athletic to really be a serious Extraction threat. But she had a Jason Bourne novel in the front pocket of her jacket, so she really couldn't be all that bad, and he'd seen how relaxed and happy she'd seemed while she was daydreaming.

It would have to do.

"Hello," Arthur said stiffly, standing in front of the chair. Once he got to know her on a professional, work level, he wouldn't feel so uncomfortable, but he had never really enjoyed spending one on one time with teenage girls. Ariadne had already been a woman by the time he'd met her, but this girl was clearly as fresh, naïve, and innocent as any American girl in a different country.

"Hi," She said uninterestedly, continuing to write. Arthur cleared his throat and she looked up, snapping her journal shut and blushing.

"Sorry, I was…did you need anything?"

"No, it's fine, I interrupted…"

They both paused, smiling a little at the awkwardness of having talked over each other, and then both waited for the other to go first.

After a minute of very polite but unproductive verbal stuttering on both sides, Arthur shook his head and extended his hand.

"Arthur," He said gravely.

"Au- Rie," The girl said, shaking his hand. Her grip was too light, but on the whole she seemed to be alright. "Well, Aurora, really, but I go by Rie."

"Rie," He repeated. "I'm here to offer you a job opportunity."

"Did Professor Ariadne recommend me?" Rie asked in apparent surprise. Arthur grinned.

"No, she didn't."

The girl immediately looked relieved and hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. "I figured. What's the job?"

"I can't exactly tell you until you've agreed to take it," Arthur admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

"But I can't exactly tell if I'm going to take it or not if I don't know what it is," She said shrewdly, eyes and brows contracting in a passable imitation of Cobb, which took Arthur aback. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Well, how about we go get a coffee, and I can tell you why I can't tell you, and then you can decide if you want to do it or not."

"And you don't find anything weird about asking me, a total stranger, to go and get coffee to talk about a mysterious job that I can't know about until I agree to do?"

Arthur grinned. "No, I don't." He paused theatrically and turned down to look at her. "Do you?"


	32. Younger

"Well…" She drawled out, holding on to the 'L'. Arthur placed her somewhere in the Midwest. "It's not a desk job is it?"

"No." Arthur said emphatically. He watched her stir her cup of coffee aimlessly, after dumping in what looked like at least half of the sugar and creamer. "Not a coffee person?"

"My friends let me try it once- I bounced off the walls for about ten minutes before crashing."

"Good to know."

"Ha ha. So this job- what _can _you tell me?"

"It pays well," Arthur said immediately. She snorted, but looked intrigued. "But it's…" He cleared his throat. "..Difficult. It takes a certain type of person to do it right."

Eames, Ariadne, and himself had decided to use a similar approach to what Cobb had done when inducting Ariadne into the world, only with a gentler, gradual approach. He had been adverse to the idea, but Ariadne had convinced him no one in her class would be able to resist the heady experience, and almost none of them would tell the authorities. Her exact phrase was lost to him at the moment, but it seemed to involve 'lack of morals' and 'perfect fit'. At the time, he had rolled his eyes at the obvious dig, but he understood the reasoning behind it. Ariadne had struggled with returning to normal life, and was still aghast at herself for forgiving them for coming back so easily.

He remembered the feel of her leg under his hand and shuddered, hours later, at the feelings it had caused in him. Rie was seemingly oblivious, staring into the depths of her cup with a mixture of disgust and apathy that was almost humorous. It was an expression Arthur certainly couldn't equate with coffee, especially in Paris.

"I can show you a sample of what you'll be doing with the Team if you come with me-"He laid down several Euros and gallantly offered his arm to the young college student. She looked impressed and accepted it with a small smile, chattering about how beautiful the day was.

Arthur guided her towards the warehouse, studying her out of the corner of her eyes. She had stopped off at her apartment to rid herself of the backpack and reached for a large chunky purse Arthur felt nauseous considering it could probably fit the PASIV and a baby in it, and it was gaudy fake blue snakeskin that seemed filled with novels and pencils and all sorts of sentimental junk.

Then again, he had seen the contents of Ariadne's messenger bag. The two of them would certainly get along, that was for sure.

She quieted down as they approached the warehouse, and Arthur paused and turned to her. "Everything alright?" He asked easily, sensing her body tension and unease.

"Yes." She said cautiously. Arthur gave her a skeptic look. "What?" He asked.

"Well, it's just…I don't actually know who you are, and I agreed to go with you to a…um…wherever, without telling anyone, and it's deserted and that was probably stupid of me."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Arthur said gently, "I'm honestly here to offer you a job."

"Well…." She blushed. "I'm sorry."

"I wouldn't make a habit of following after older men who offer you jobs though," He cautioned, smiling a little. He opened the warehouse door with a flourish and ushered her inside.

"Who do we have here?" A British drawl broke the momentary silence, and Rie jumped. Eames came around the corner, hands in his pockets, smiling appreciatively at Rie. "They keep getting _younger._"

"Eames," Arthur warned, noticing the look of alarm cross Rie's face. She looked sidewise at Arthur and shuffled her feet, clearly ashamed of her lapse of judgment. He wanted to reassure her, but her impulsiveness sort of _was _a character flaw. "Eames is an associate of ours," He exclaimed carefully to the young girl. "Ariadne and I have worked with him before."

Eames' gaze snapped to Arthur. "I thought we weren't going to mention Ariadne until they agreed to the job?"

"Why, is it a secret?" Rie piped up eagerly, immediately. Eames looked sour. "Apparently not." He replied coolly. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Right. Rie, if you could come with me, we'll get you set up. I have to ask- do you have any pathogenic diseases that can be transmitted by body fluid?"

"Umm…no?" Rie guessed, looking taken aback. "I don't think so…"

"You would know if you did," Eames called over his shoulder, dragging a lawn chair forward. Arthur assisted Rie in lying down, smiling reassuringly at her. He reached for a fresh needle and attached it the cord she would be receiving Somnacin from. He drew it out till it stretched over to her chair."You'll experience a moment of stinging, but the needle becomes bearable after a few tries."

"Needle?" Rie squeaked out, bolting up. "Is this legal?"

"No, it's not." Eames said, squatting next to Rie and taking a hold of her wrist. "But that's what makes it _fun._"

"Is it an experiment?" She asked, eyeing the approaching needle with an obvious fear. Eames laughed and ruffled her hair, grabbing her hand and holding her back by the shoulder. "Steady there," He said soothingly. "You'll be perfectly safe."

She winced as Arthur pushed the needle into her wrist, nearly crying out as it broke skin. She bit down on her cries, biting the insides of her cheek as he mercilessly continued shoving it up towards her vain.

"See, barely felt a thing!" Eames exclaimed cheerfully, nodding at Arthur. The Point man stood up and settled into his own chair with unconscious grace, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and feeding the needle into himself. Rie watched with a sort of rapt horror, though she looked impressed as well.

"Five minutes, Eames," Arthur said, nodding at the Forger and closing his eyes. "Now Rie, just relax. The Somnacin will make you sleepy, but that's okay. It's a perfectly safe dosage, and I'll explain the rest once we're under."

"What?" She squeaked, grabbing onto Eames' arm. "What's going on?"

"You have to relax," Eames said calmly, transferring her grip from his arms to his hands. "I'll be right here when you get up. Everything's fine."

"Mhm…m'kay," She murmured, yawning widely and drifting off. Arthur felt the solution begin to enter him, but he turned, groggily to Eames.

"Ariadne doesn't know I picked her," He mumbled. "Don't…don't…"

"I'll hold her off." Eames promised solemnly. "I kind of like this one." He indicated Rie with a tilt of his head. "She's got potential."

"We'll see," Arthur said seriously, and then closed his eyes and imagined pulling shapes and planes toward him, forming structures that twisted and spiraled around him. His last conscious perception was of blurry colors emerging from the darkness, forming into a familiar place.


	33. Exceedingly Lovely

**AN…Still not Chris Nolan. I know, I'm shocked too. So this was not part of my original story. But hey, things change. And then after I came up with it, I realized how to fit it into the plan and add drama/plot twists. So hey, go Bre!**

Adriane nearly sprinted to the warehouse, dodging heavy foot traffic around the college and then weaving through the streets of Paris. By now Arthur would have put the student under. By now they would be drawn into the shady world and dangerous, addictive, inescapable world of the dream and she had done nothing to stop them.

She was panicking now, shoes pounding on the pavement, hands slick with sweat. The stares of the passerby, the way the sidewalk seemed to stretch on forever and forever- she was losing purchase on the ground, scrambling to break past the restraints that seemed to keep her from moving forward. She felt the world begin to spin, and she nearly dropped to her knees.

Somewhere was there, in a gray jacket and pants, lifting her up, supporting her.

"Woah, careful there," He said, grabbing her by her elbows. Ariadne looked up in confusion.

"Thank you-" She froze. Robert Fischer's blue eyes stared back at hers. The urge to ask what he was doing here was nearly overwhelming.

"Do I know you?" He asked, studying her curiously. She shook her head frantically, keeping her eyes down and turning her face away to the best of her ability. She was shocked when he grabbed her elbow authoritatively and steered her towards the nearest outdoor café, a cheerful place with red flowers on the tables and creamy white china. He slipped a bill to the hostess, who led them to a secluded corner in the shade of vine-colored trellis. "Too early for wine?" He asked with a smile, propping his menu against the table.

Ariadne blew out a breath and cracked a polite smile, extricating her phone from her jacket pocket and trying to search for Arthur's number on memory alone. The waitress (she realized, dimly, this was the café Eames must have spoken of and her fingers stilled) came over and took both their orders (coffee and a croissant, latte and a scone). Fischer smiled at her in the awkward silence after their waitress' departure.

"My name's Robert Fischer," He said pleasantly, fingering the tablecloth with surprisingly unfeminine hands. As the Architect, Ariadne had had the least to do with Fischer during the case. Yet in briefings, she had always seen him as sort of an aimless young man who had yet to really achieve anything in his life, but with potential. That he had potential was obvious during the Extraction, as he'd stayed calm and listened to Cobb, attempting to keep himself safe from the dream. (And while he'd ultimately failed, she didn't really count it against him, because after all, they were the best).

"Ariadne," She replied, nodding and taking a sip of the tall glass of ice water. Fischer raised his own in a jaunty salute and brought the glass to his lips. "What brings you to Paris?" She asked pleasantly, hoping against hope this wasn't a bad question to ask.

She was surprised when Fischer leaned forward, eyes sparkling and a passion and determination she had never seen on him before.

Eames, rounding the corner, had. It was the same look Fischer had worn after resuscitation, staggering to his feet and silently approaching the massive vault. He stopped in his tracks and fell back behind the trellis, warily watching the couple make polite conversation as only two foreign strangers in Paris could do. He was tempted to ring Arthur, but the Point Man was still under with Ria, or Riveria, or whatever the hell the petite trainee was called. River, maybe.

Eames grimaced. He really needed to learn the new Extractor's name, even though he personally thought she wouldn't be sticking around. Much too timid and unsure of herself- and afraid of everything, to boot!

The Forger decided to wait it out and come up with a plan to extract the petite architect on his own. (Really, what was up with how skinny and slender his teammates were? Had they ever heard of steak?) The only solutions he could think of were even more suspicious and terrible, and each was worse than the next. They would be running and raising suspicion and maybe even triggering a repressed memory of Fischer's that would cause him to recognize them.

There were of course the clichés- he could pretend to be her fiancé or something ridiculous like that, but Eames generally tried to avoid anything resembling the movies he and Teddy had taken girls to. Eames preferred to be professional about it- a business colleague or acquaintance- there it was, an idea, taking shape in his mind.

Eames was so busy constructing his new identity he dropped out of the conversation the Architect and the Businessman were having.

"Charity." Fischer said enthusiastically, leaning forward and gesturing with his hands. He looked excited, eager, and at least five years younger- the lines that had formed from his father's death had faded slightly, and a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Charity?" Ariadne asked weakly, in disbelief. She had seen a lot of Fischer's subconscious, but had never pegged him to be a thoroughly altruistic or particularly philanthropic person. Yet there was a twinkle in his eye and a subtle, self-satisfied smirk on face.

"Yes, well, I'm arranging a gala in a friend's honor in about a month- the Cannes Film Festival will be going on at that time, and it's very likely the guests will join in the event, seeing as it is for charity."

"Of course," Ariadne said demurely. "Charity is a noble cause."

"Yes," Fischer agreed, nodding absentmindedly and looking off into the distance. His hands seemed to unknowingly clench around the tablecloth. "Ever since I had a dream-" (Ariadne spluttered and choked on at least half of her water glass, then hastily gulped the rest down and avoided looking back at Fischer, who had glanced over, alarmed)-"to make Fischer-Cobol a corporation unlike any the world has ever seen- a true superpower of innovation and….I'm sorry," He stopped in his tracks and shifted in his seat to be more up front and honest. "I get so used to talking about work, I forget there's more."

"Well, I'm sure it doesn't hurt to be goal-oriented," Ariadne said soothingly, making the quite the full recovery from her episode of near drowning. In fact, she straightened up and sat a little taller in her seat, very proud.

Eames rolled his eyes and adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, breathing deeply and rolling out his shoulders a couple of times. Adjustments needed to be made- a shift in balance, a change in which leg he balanced more weight on, the particular way he held his hands when still- all had to fit into the unique persona he had crafted to the task of extricating Ariadne. At this point, however, he was hesitant to interrupt. Nash had called in this morning in the warehouse, while Ariadne was still sleeping. Arthur had pulled up a wooden chair and sat next to the phone, wrists on his knees, hands hanging passively. Eames had stood slightly behind him, tense hand rubbing the slight scruff on his cheeks and chin. Nash had confirmed the Extraction of Business Plans would take place at the upcoming Charity Gala Fischer was planning. He had also added two new stipulations, one expected, the other not.

Eames had told Arthur he was positive Yusuf was really and truly dead, citing his sources and laying his case on the line. Arthur, stoic and silent as always, had agreed with him, and come forward with a revelation of his own- Nash was in all likelihood going to become the Architect for the Project.

Now, with the phone call they had neglected to mention to Ariadne, Arthur's suspicions had proven anything but false. Nash had voiced his concerns with Ariadne (_If you only knew,_ both boys thought bitterly, remembering cityscapes that seemed to be basking in realism- granted the realism was in the form of rain-) and her abilities to design layers specifically tailored to the dream. Arthur, having worked with Nash, had visibly looked affronted, rolled his eyes, and shaken his head in the combination of disbelief and disgust he usually reserved for Eames. Eames had nearly protested, but a hand from Arthur kept him quiet.

The second stipulation was a bit of a surprise- a modified extraction. Browning wanted to know what Fischer's plan was for him- to extract both the entire business plans and his specific goals and thoughts and requirements regarding one sleazy Peter Browning.

"You should come- I don't know very many personal acquaintances; and you are _exceedingly _lovely," Fischer was saying as Eames looked up again, and the Forger smirked, coming out from behind the trellis. Ariadne had just been invited _by the Mark to the event they had needed access for to complete the job, which was being held in order to get back at the Client._

This was why Eames preferred illegal jobs. With all the legal backstabbing and hidden agendas of the corporate sector, sometimes being a bullet-dodging privacy invader seemed like a safe career bet.


	34. Law School

**AN, alright readers, una pregunta para tu. Being Spanish for, yo, answer this question. Now, the game plan at this point is for four stories in this saga, eventually, and as it progresses you'll see what's up. But- BUT!- This current story could technically be split if y'all wanted. So- have two medium-length ish stories (and this would be the short one, of the two) where the first one ends in a semi-cliffhanger, or one big ass story? I'm fine with either.**

**Also, one of my lovely reviewers mentioned more fluff…if I get to a point in my life where fluff happens to me, so I can write about it without sounding like a pre-teen Disney romantic comedy g-rated fan fiction (shudders) I will include it. But at this point, um, they're on a life or death job, even though my writing skills aren't quite good enough to show that. EVENTUALLY, they will be able to do all sorts of scandalous things in the warehouse (because we all know the warehouse was seriously misunderused I invented that word. Be jealous. Learn it. Love it. Use it. in the first one. I mean, really, Arthur and Ariadne should have been getting laid ever since Paradoxical Architecture.) And they won't be the only couple **

**I do have to give a shout-out here, while I'm setting the record for longest Arthur's Note ever (see what I did there? I didn't even notice it till I reread this, but I feel like I should keep it in to show how deep Inception is in my subconscious. Limbo deep.) to several people and one thing. First of all, google search My Immortal, Worst Fan fiction ever, and read it. It's highly diverting. Secondly, I would like to thank RaifandRosefan for being hardcore amazing, and gpeach6, for being exceedingly awesome. Also, Legal-Assassin-006, my new goal in life is to get you to leave a lengthy review, so I am hard at work attempting to blow your mind. Just not with this chapter. Eventually, though. So be prepared.**

**Also, I just got a review from Bourneinception, who deserves recognition for having a flipping badass username.**

**And finally, Arthur's back story is in 2 parts, because I thought his out the most, and I decided to use it now before the love quadrilateral came into play o.O I added some Easter eggs for those of us who watch Ellen Page and Joseph Gordon-Levitt films.**

Arthur wasn't expecting much- he had assured Ariadne he was prepared to take the new Extractor under his wing and take them step by step, as efficiently and thoroughly as possible in the next month.

In fact, the Extractor really didn't have to be any good at all- he, Arthur, planned on doing most of the work, much like he did with Cobb. Where Cobb had been the smooth talker, now Arthur would be the smooth talker.

At least, that's what he'd told Ariadne Monday afternoon. That night, he had returned to his posh hotel and sat at the luxurious leather couch in his suite, loosening his tie and clutching a constantly full glass of whiskey in his elegant fingers. He had stared into the depths of the darkening room, knowing in his soul there was physically no way to pull off the extraction without Cobb.

He had drunk all the whiskey, and most of the bourbon, before stumbling into the bathroom and resting his head against the cool ceramic tile. He didn't care that his suit was wrinkling, or his shoes were still on, or that he'd left the windows open, and the white curtains were slowly becoming soaked from the light rain splattering onto the balcony.

Law school. His parents- rich, wealthy, elitist socialites, with connections everywhere. The Kennedys, the Mafia, Hollywood, Wall Street, Congress, Broadway. The family was considered East Coast Royalty. He, Gwen, and Lance (their maternal Grandfather had been the Professor of English Literature at Harvard for thirty years before their time, and for all he knew still was lecturing about the Order of the Bear and the Princes in the Tower, or whatever the hell one studied in English Literature) had spent their time swinging their legs off the pier and eating clam chowder, wearing polo shirts and sailing. He used to find twigs and throw them to Merlin, his dog- because, he had explained when his father had brought him home, the dog was his best friend, and Merlin was King Arthur's best friend- so it was really rude to give him a name like Bobby (Lance's choice) or Collie (Gwen's).

Never mind that Merlin turned out to be a girl, and brought Excalibur and George Washington (his father had had enough of the King Arthur references to last several reincarnations) into the world.

The first big word Arthur had ever learned was 'stereotypical'. He had snuck into the pantry for girl scout cookies, because apparently stuffing one's mouth full of Thin Mints was not allowed, and heard his mother talking. To herself.

As far as he knew, to this day, his mother was not crazy. She was just very lonely. She wasn't as much of a socialite elitist as she acted in public; she found their Hampton neighbors perfectly 'abhorrent' and 'atrocious'. But she had been complaining about her sleazy husband, and their fake-perfect life, and how stereotypical it all was.

It had culminated in smashed china, and chunks of half-chewed thin mints falling out of Arthur's mouth as he watched in shock. Gwen had cried, Lance had looked sad and thoughtful, and Merlin had started barking.

Arthur's father had flat out refused to divorce her, explaining patiently it would cause a scandal and ruin any chance he had at ever running for office. Think of the children- think of how the country club would talk!

Never mind the fact that _he _was having an affair or anything; that wouldn't come out until ten years later, when 18 year old, fresh out of high school Arthur was in the kitchen, searching for liquor, and ended up having to hide out in the very same pantry to avoid getting caught red-handed when Mr. and Mistress were returning from an afternoon golf game and ran into Mrs. Literally, red-handed- he'd cut himself with the bottle opener- he still wasn't sure how it had happened, but it had.

(He'd already been semi-drunk; that was how it happened.) But he wasn't an alcoholic- he'd been in love with Cassandra Monclair, whose Father had been to Greece and fallen in love with the classical and timelessness of the place. He'd wanted to call her Hera, but his wife had requested they use more modern version of the name.

Cassandra was a vivid and impulsive girl, who always braided her hair and wore the shortest skirts Arthur had thought possible. She had been full of life, and bubbles, and cartwheels…_in the skirts_. A cheerleader, debate team member, choir participant, Prom court nominee both years...she was perfect. They had been inseparable since children. Cass, Arthur, Lance, and Royce Johnson Wayne DeWitt IV.

Royce Johnson Wayne DeWitt IV was the fourth member of the Hampton gang-esque group. Arthur always referred to him by his full name to signify just how much of a massive douche bag he was. Arthur had had his fair share of questionable pranks and borderline illegal adventures. But whereas Arthur was mischievous and fun-loving, Royce Johnson Wayne DeWitt IV was _a douche._

This was proved irrevocably when Cassandra had run towards Arthur after graduation for a hug in celebration and he'd stepped directly in front of the young Point Man and swept the girl over his shoulder and carried her off to his .convertible, declaring he'd been in love with her all his life and they should run off to California together.

Arthur had known about Cass' weakness for cliché, romantic comedy moments more than Royce Johnson Wayne DeWitt IV had, because Arthur was the one who always watched him with her. Ironically, however, this had left him stuck in what Eames referred to as "the Friend Zone". Then again, all three of the boys had been in love with her- she was just one of those girls you grew up, and knew you always wanted to end up with. It had been puppy love, but it had been the strongest, most pure kind.

Lance was Arthur's younger brother by 52 minutes and 8 seconds- the specificity of the time was important to both of them. They were identical in physical appearance and chivalry, and being dicks as teenagers. Lance had been a shade more athletic than Arthur, and a smidgen more flirtatious and confident with the ladies. (Well, a lot, but to Arthur in his inebriated state on the tile floor the difference between two girlfriends and seventeen didn't seem _quite _so great). After getting over the heartbreak of Cass getting knocked up, causing her to become Mrs. Royce Johnson Wayne DeWitt IV (the phone call where this revealed was what had led Arthur to the pantry, and to the discovery that his Father had banged more of his classmates than he had), Lance had headed to the West Coast as well, giving up his dream of studying Architecture to work for a Los Angeles greeting card company. He had apparently fallen in love again, though Arthur had never found out what had happened with that.

By then, he had met Eames.

Or rather, Eames had met him. Arthur had kissed little Gwen (fourteen now, not quite so little) on the cheek, told his mother he loved her, and nodded coldly at his father before heading off to a prestigious law school.

He was a pre-law major for exactly 17 weeks. And on day one of the 18th week, a gorgeous French woman had approached him.

That was as far as Arthur got before the darkness swallowed him up, and all he could feel was the coldness of the tile floor pressed into his cheek, and the hollow noise of the empty glass rolling around on the bathroom floor.


	35. Mr Charles

**AN. Hi, I'm Chris Nolan, and I own Inception. Aren't you jealous of me and the fact that I got to keep the Batmobile?**

**Just kidding. I'm listening to Jar of Hearts and making a tarot deck, because I've always wanted one ever since I read the sixth Harry Potter book, just so I can walk past someone and go "a young man, possibly dangerous…that can't be right!" Because I'm cool like that. Ooh, speaking of songs, if y'all haven't listened to Letters from the Sky by Civil Twilight yet, DO IT. RIGHT THIS SECOND. I planted it in your brain, you don't have a choice.**

**Anyway, I'm updating this, because I was threatened with cupcakes of vengeance, and everyone knows the only thing more dangerous than being stuck in Limbo is being attacked. *shudders*.**

"Oh," Ariadne said, taken aback by Fischer's invitation. She had no idea what the protocol for this situation, but she took a moment to think about what Arthur would say. On the one hand, if he were to ever recognize her from the Inception dream; it would comprise the current operation. Then again, since this current job was technically on Cobol payroll, couldn't she use some sort of a, "we're on the same side" technique, like a real-life Mr. Charles gambit?

Only, like the Mr. Charles gambit, she would be alerting him to the strangeness of it all, putting her right back to predicament number one. Was the Inception the number one priority here, or was the new Extraction?

Extraction…Extract…Extractor…NEW EXTRACTOR!

Ariadne brought a hand to her head. She had completely forgotten about the fact that one of her students was right now under, with Arthur, experiencing a dreamscape designed to introduce them to the world of the dream- to bring them in, let their mind fill it, let them get a feel for it, before Arthur would send them down another level to run mazes within mazes and a system of paradoxes that ultimately dead ended right where they started- a test, to see how the Extractor could handle challenges, and focus under pressure.

She sucked in a deep breath. This was her test. Having an inside pass to Fischer could be very valuable. And if that wasn't a good enough reason for Arthur, well then….

She would come up with something. She was the best architect in the world- that _had_ to count for something. He had given her an invite into his private world.

She had seen enough spy movies to know how this could possibly work (and knowing Eames, how it probably would, because it meant he wouldn't have to switch off genders for once) and she knew it would involve asking him out for drinks and slipping in a sedative.

_Fine. Whatever. She could do that. It wasn't really unethical, was it? I mean, he invited her, but he didn't really know her. He should know better. _

_It was a company event. She worked for the company._

_It wasn't like she was going to rape him or something- they were just going into his subconscious briefly. Momentarily. Hardly at all. They weren't even screwing up his life and changing the very core beliefs he functioned on._

_Maybe…he likes dreaming?_ She tried, one last time, but her excuses and reasons kept sounding weaker and feebler. How was that even possible?

But then she remembered Arthur- how determined he was to get her out of this. How Eames couldn't even muster his usually snarky presence. Yusuf was probably dead. One of her college students was supposed to help them break into the mind of someone trained to resist. And not even a grad student. One of her first semester intro students.

She had to do whatever the team needed. Eames had tried to tell her earlier, with the strip club, but she'd never fully comprehended it. You couldn't _be _uncomfortable with this stuff- you couldn't react at all. You had to bury yourself inside, and just be whatever they needed you to be on the outside.

Ariadne had never felt more in tune to the Forger and the Point Man in her life. She was used to their presence, their expertise, their crisp professionalism and brilliant work. She had never realized how they had been actively working to be like that- they'd practiced for years. She had known Arthur's stoic silences couldn't be completely him, but she had never realized until this epiphany just how much she had to give up to dream.

Was that the price she would have to pay for them coming back? Because a machine, a stone-cold agent of espionage? Would she have to give up her sliding morals and slippery ethics?

If it was, she could do that. She would have to. From her understanding, Architects really weren't that vital a part of the team- all prep and hardly action, unless they were needed to hold the dream while everyone else went down a second level. But she was more than an Architect, just like Eames was more than a Forger, and Arthur was more than a Point Man.

She would not become Cobb, not being able to handle sacrifice and change. She would suck it up and accept that her name was ironic, and that she really was Ariadne leading her boys through mazes.

"That _does_ sound like fun," She said, smiling at the waitress as she delivered their orders. "I've never been to a charity gala before."

"Well, now you can cross it off your bucket list," Fischer said, smiling. The two continued to chat about small talk –the weather, tourist attractions; the small things two strangers could discuss without raising suspicion or being intrusive, but it was mostly Ariadne, because Fischer had said he worked too much to know a lot about Paris- while they enjoyed the bright Paris sunshine and the delicacies the café had to offer.

Inside, Ariadne didn't know how much more she could take. She needed to get to the warehouse, _now_. Eames hadn't shown up, she didn't know how to leave without raising suspicion, she couldn't get a hold of Arthur….all she needed now was for Mal to show up and stab her repeatedly in the gut some more.

"Well," She said carefully, pursing her lips as she wondered how to phrase this correctly…."I have an appointment this afternoon, and I should probably start heading that way."

Fischer looked up from his coffee. "I should probably go and get back to work too-we're putting some assets into the market today and I want to be able to track them as they go. There's a 2.5 billion dollar deal on the table, and then…" He paused and shook his head like he was clearing it. "I'm sorry," He said sincerely. "I talk about work too much. I didn't used to be like this. But then…after my father's death… it just seemed to take over my life." He gestured for the waitress to get the check and then stood up, patting his pockets several times. "Ah-here," He drew out an expensive card from his breast pocket, all creamy paper and bold blue lines- his name, phone number and email in hard black letters.

Ariadne got to her feet as well, thanking him for the card. The two walked in silence for a few minutes, stopping on the street corner where they had first met. (For the second time, Ariadne thought to herself, remembering how she had eyed him on the plane nervously until Arthur had put a hand on her shoulder, thumb soothing circles into her collar bone.)

"Call me," He said sincerely, stooping in and kissing her softly on the cheek. "I'd like to see you again."

He smiled at her and eased into the crowd, walking down the street in the other direction, as nonchalant and self-confident as ever.

"There she is," Eames called loudly, greeting her as she opened the warehouse door –in silence- and walked over toward the tableau in front of her –in silence-. "I was all prepared to help you out, but then you seemed fine and I had to get back to the warehouse to wake them up. How was it?"

"How was what?" Arthur said groggily, sitting upright. He eyed the business card clutched in her hand and his eyes popped out. "Did-"

"He didn't recognize her." Eames informed him.

"Well then good job Ari-Ariadne?"

She kept walking, over to her desk. She sat down hard, face still expressionless. Rie stirred from the lawn chair, Eames and Arthur moving to reassure her, but neither gaze shifted from the Architect. Wordlessly, Ariadne drew her bishop from her pocket and tipped it over.

She did it again.

And again.

And again.

"...Um?" Rie asked. Arthur looked up to Eames.

"Is she alright?" He asked lowly. Rie was gazing, wide-eyed, as the bishop continued to be knocked over. Eames cocked his head to one side, studying the Architect.

"I think so." He said lightly. Eames took this opportunity to head towards the front of the warehouse. The beautiful blonde still had twenty minutes left in her shift- he could make that. Maybe even convince her to join him. He felt Arthur's eyes following him, no doubt hearing the vague note of I-know-something-you-don't-know in his answer. "He probably just kissed her or something."

Arthur's head shot back to Ariadne's so fast Rie flinched and fell off the armchair.


	36. The Girl in the red Jacket

**AN. Alright, let me take a moment to vent. All 3 (3! Not just one, 3!) of my favorite TV couples are not together. And two of the three are apparently not getting together. So The Cape and Being Human, ya suck. Glee- I'm reserving to criticism, but be warned, my patience is wearing thin.**

Nash crumpled a piece of paper and threw it over his shoulder. This job was very important. Browning was relying on him to perform exceedingly well for this job- to be the very best.

Unfortunately, he wasn't. The girl in the red jacket was. And he had to get rid of her if he was going to take the credit for this job and get rid of the team. He was the leader- he was in charge of this.

He etched a straight line onto the paper, grimacing at the results. The lines weren't thick enough; bold enough. It was merely adequate. And, well, nine out of ten times Nash was more than okay with adequacy, because Architects were in short supply.

He fulfilled the requirements.

Ariadne surpassed them.

He sighed and traced another line.

**AN. This chapter is a joke, I know, but the Oscars are on and I have a test tomorrow, but I wanted to show y'all that Nash isn't just chilling around Paris doing nothing. He's working too. **


	37. The Dream Is Collapsing

**AN/ Previously on **_**Extraction**_**: Inception is shut out of Original Screenplay award (WTF- they gave it to a script based on a play based on a real event? Oh yeah…super original and thought provoking). Best Score? Ohhh, right….apparently it wasn't genius. The Academy is dumb.**

**Anyhoo, I know the mark of a good writer is to never have to explain yourself for clarity, and hopefully this chapter will make it obvious where in the time structure it falls, but if it doesn't, tell me, so I can fix it/leave it because I honestly have no idea how to fix it. And on that promising and optimistic note, Chapter 37. Also, this may be my last update till next week- I am headed for England on Friday (English peeps reading this story- hit me up, I need to know where all the celebrities in London are lol) and I'll get back on Thursday, after which I am helping the love of my life go to a school dance with another girl. Hooray!**

**So, in honor of how much you guys and your reviews cheer me up, even when I'm being haunted by the shade of my dead wife who committed suicide because I convinced her she was dreaming (because, as a professional, I clearly had the experience and research to know THAT was going to turn out well for all involved, and take such a small, planned-out, common risk on my own wife, who was also a mother), this chapter is extra long, even if my Author's note was extra snarky. :p**

He found her near the plaza, enviously watching her projections running and shrieking in the fountain. The sky was covered in clouds, but golden rays of sunlight were streaming through the breaks. It was the calm after the storm- the thunder rumbling over the horizon reminded him of booming music cues, though there was no kick for this dream. Just a timer, primed and ready, red numbers flickering down. There was a light breeze, and Arthur felt the cool mist soaking into him. He smirked and strolled nonchalantly over to the new Extractor.

Her eyes were closed, water droplets visible all over, and he could see how she leaned to get nearer to the spray. She was more child than woman, so unlike and like yet Ariadne. He had always regretted not being the one to take Ariadne under the first time- to see her wonderment, her creation- her skyscrapers spiraling and falling in on themselves. The pure creation. It especially stung because he had become her mentor for all intents and purposes, and yet she had always relied on Cobb to be the older and wiser teacher. Yet he had been too busy keeping his dead wife subconsciously alive to truly mentor her.

"Rie," He said in his customary deep voice. She turned her wet face towards him, still wearing a peaceful and serene expression that quickly morphed into bewilderment. "Arthur- we just met." He held out a hand to shake, prompting her. She took it at once, clearly going along with whatever he did; a good sign- she adapted fast.

Recognition flitted across her face. "The job- Professor Ariadne…" She fell silent, confused again.

"If you come with me, I can explain everything." He offered her his free arm gallantly, picking up the silver briefcase beside him. Rie squinted –looking extraordinarily like Cobb- as if she recognized it but couldn't place it.

He led her over to a chess table on the edge of the plaza, positioning himself behind the golden pieces and fingering the bishop with a small, unconscious smile. Rie lowered herself into the chair on the side and plucked a silver pawn from the line.

"So the job-" Arthur started, countering with a pawn of his own. "It's not strictly legal."

"I figured that when the needles came out." She said absently, clearly not paying attention, wiggling her fingers in midair as she debated her next move. Arthur's eyebrows contracted in surprise and she looked up, mouth falling open with a popping sound. "Whaa-"

"Stay calm," Arthur watched her carefully. "Relax. Deep breaths."

"I-I-I" She stuttered. "What's happening?" Her projections began to react, some becoming more violently rambunctious and reckless; others began to panic; but a few froze up and turned accusingly towards Arthur. The Point Man could see the fear growing in her eyes, feeding off the chaos and starting a vicious cycle.

Skyscrapers in the distance began to rain glass, windows cascading like a crystal waterfall. The ground cracked and splintered around them. Concrete was fissuring apart rapidly. The fountain seemed to explode- water spraying upward and a massive wave washing over them like the first wall of a tsunami. Arthur struggled to reach the surface and opened his eyes in the Warehouse.

"That was quick," Eames voice piped up. Arthur focused, tearing his eyes from the ceiling and attempting to steady his breathing without Eames noticing he was having trouble breathing.

"She caught on too fast; the dreams collapsing." He ripped out the needle and rose to feet.

Rie flung her hands over her head as gallons of water crushed her. She felt the pressure building, suffocating, blanketing her- she panicked, kicking out with her legs and breaking the surface, throwing her head back and gasping for breath.

It was eerily silent of people, and still. Just her, bobbing in the ebb and flow of the water like a buoy. She was shivering from the cold- it made it look like the whole world was shaking violently. The water was extremely deep….miles, it felt like. Her teeth chattered.

She kicked around, searching for signs of life, but there were none. Bedraggled and water-logged, she watched in shock and awe at the post-apocalyptic wasteland she floated in. Buildings were crumbling; huge chunks falling like sand, crashing into the water with roars and spray.

There was a huge metal creaking and groaning noise that seemed to rent the world in two, cutting jaggedly through the thick and poignant air like a rusty knife. She turned, watching in frozen horror as a huge metal structure towered over her, swaying ominously. The bolts connecting it to the concrete base just breaking the surface of the water broke with a loud metal clang, and the teetering structure began to fall in apparent slow motion towards her. She tried to swim out of the way, pushing against the current, but could find no purchase. She struggled harder but seemed to go nowhere. She felt tremors in the air, heard her falling, felt it coming closer, closed her eyes and let out a blood-curdling scream…

…Echoing through the warehouse. She flung herself out of the chair with a chair with a cry, even as Arthur dived towards her. She fell back onto the chair under his weight as he let out a frantic yell for Eames.

The Forger grabbed Rie's tiny hand in his own. "You're alright love, everything's fine. Breathe."

"What-what's happening?" She panted, tears falling out of her eyes. Arthur grimaced. He had picked the wrong one. He would tell her she fainted during the interview, had a hallucination- it was quite common, the stress could be unbearable on college students- remove her from the warehouse before she suspected anything and try to pull off the Extraction on his own with Eames double-tasking.

"You were dreaming," Eames explained. Rie stopped shaking, eyes wide and face changing almost comically into shock and awe, mixed with disbelief. Arthur pushed himself off her in a fluid movement, returning to his full height. "Eames." He growled, eyeing the Forger darkly.

Eames simply shrugged, looking down at Rie paternally. "She seems to have potential. And you can't blame the girl- you went about it in completely the wrong way."

"Then why didn't you speak up before?" He managed to retort between clenched teeth. Rie looked from one stony impassive face to the other, and then looked straight ahead. She didn't remember much of what had just happened –water, water everywhere, and creaking metal- but she remembered falling asleep. She could feel the details slipping like sand between her fingers and mentally reached out to grab it; pull it back, but it was fading faster and faster now, like insects crawling away from the light and-

She relaxed into the back of the chair, huffing in frustration when the details remained elusive. The action caused her wrist to twitch slightly, and she felt the strange sensation of the needle still slipped under her skin.

"Arthur," Eames' voice said from above her, and she had a sudden flash of him holding out his hand for her to shake- he had been there too. She looked over at the other lawn chair, remembering him sitting down and holding a similar needle.

She followed the line from her wrist to where it connected to a shiny silver briefcase. There was a flash- she remembered in her mind the sudden blinding light when the sunlight had hit the briefcase Arthur was holding.

So the device must have had something to do with it. It had made her tired; she had fallen asleep. Arthur, plugged in, had been there too. There had been water, she had woken with a scream- she wanted a Tylenol, her head her. 'You were dreaming.' Eames said again.

"Oh!" She exclaimed loudly, sitting bolt upright. "That dream- that was real?" She asked hesitantly. Both men stopped conversing about loose ends and security risks to look down at her. "Can it- Will it work again?"

She directed her question to Arthur, the dark haired man, so she completely missed the wide and gleeful smile stretching across Eames face. Arthur sat back down on the lawn chair so he and Rie were at the same level.

"Yes." He said gravely. "It's called lucid dreaming. Eames-" His gaze swung up to meet the Forger, and Rie turned to study the Brit in awe and fascination. Her eyes were excited- hopeful. "Get lunch. We may be under when you get back."

Eames saluted the Forger and bent down to take the tiny brunette's hand. "It will be a pleasure working with you," He said seriously, planting a kiss on it and striding out of the warehouse. "I'm off to the Café."

When Rie turned back around she was bright red. Arthur thought of Ariadne and wanted to grin- then he remembered the blush was from Eames and scowled instead.


	38. Drifting Asleep

**AN Chris Nolan is my idol. Alas, we have no connection. This chapter is extremely dialogue-y, which is far from my strong point. So I apologize for my mediocre writing now.**

"So you can go into other people's dreams?" Rie asked, lying down on the lawn chair with the needle still in. (Arthur had moved to remove it but she had yanked her wrist away, protesting she wanted to keep it in. "It doesn't work until I press the button," He had explained patiently, but she had stubbornly shaken her head. "It's so cool!" She gushed. "Don't touch it!")

He was frankly a little annoyed with her obvious over enthusiasm and excitement. Dream share was a professional industry for adults- the teen was clearly treating it as a dream come true.

Arthur grimaced. He had never liked puns, but working in the Extraction world was like setting yourself up for one every fucking day.

"_Yes_," He said forcefully, "But there's certain rules."

"Right, right," She said airily, literally waving it away with her hands, "But you can literally go in there and dream up whoever you want, or whatever place you want, and go in and _control stuff_?"

She was so wrong for this. So wrong. But it was far too late now.

"It's called lucid dreaming," He repeated, rubbing his hands together. "And we use it for our job."

She sat up, even more interested (impossibly so; he was sure of it, and he lived in a world where impossibilities were few and far between) and her lips pursed in confusion. "Which is?"

"The human mind works…" He huffed with impatience and reached behind him for a sketchpad and a thick ink pen. "As a series of patterns and associations. Cobb always explained it like this." He began to draw the circle out with a light but steady hand.

"Who's Cobb?" Rie asked immediately. Arthur paused, pen still poised midair. He cleared his throat.

"An old friend," He said softly, sincerely. Rie immediately looked taken aback and embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," She said. "I remember when my Grammy died-"

"He's not dead!" Arthur explained in horrified alarm. "He just retired. Jesus…"

"Well the way you said it made it sound like he was," She snapped throwing herself back in the chair with a huff and crossing her arms. "You shouldn't go making it sound like he died if he didn't actually die."

"Let's get back on topic, shall we?" He said smoothly, trying to smile politely but not managing more than a grimace. This was why Eames wanted her on the team- he could tell she'd be just the right choice to annoy Arthur.

"Alright," She said, seemingly indifferently. But she leaned forward and eyed the drawing all the same. "A circle."

"Yeah," He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "When you dream, you create and discover at the same time- sometimes it doesn't feel like you're building as much as you are finding. With our job, we can cut right through the middle (he drew the line in to highlight his point) by using the machine over there, called the PASIV."

"The Passive."

"No, it's like an Acronym. The PASIV. P-A-S-I-V."

"What does it stand for?" Rie was curious and fascinated, something Arthur could respect, and he fell comfortably back into Mentor mode, grinning slightly as the similarity to Ariadne became more pronounced, and the reinstruction felt comfortingly familiar, and reminiscent of the days the two had spent side by side in the otherwise empty warehouse, becoming fast partners and teammates.

"Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device," He rifled off, smirking as her jaw dropped.

"I know four out of five of those words." She defended herself when she caught sight of his smirk. "Oh, shut up and explain it already."

"Somnacin," He stated simply, "Is the chemical that runs through that needle into your bloodstream. It puts you to sleep and synchronizes you to the rest of us."

"So we're all in the same dream, basically? And this machine connects us?"

"Right. Now the dream is designed by the Architect beforehand, and it's generally made into a maze to confuse the projections and buy us more time."

"Projections? How much time do we need?"

"I'll get there," He reassured her. "It's like…what's your major?"

"English." Rie straightened up proudly. "I'm going to be an author."

"Perfect. There are usually two to three members on a team- but our team is much larger because of the circumstances. Don't ask- your life will be in danger if I tell you."

A moment of silence.

"I can't tell if you're kidding," Rie mumbled after a moment. Arthur looked up to meet her gaze, and there was an odd mixture of challenge, defiance, and curiosity on her face. "I'm not." He said seriously. Her eyes widened in alarm.

"Oh."

"Yeah," He said sympathetically. "We have a very powerful job, Rie. Anyway, besides the Architect is the…Chemist…he provides the Somnacin or any sedatives we need to put us to sleep."

"I thought the Somnacin put us to sleep?"

"It does. The sedative is used to keep the team under. See, we can only stay under and go so deep without stabilization. The sedative stabilizes everything, the Somnacin just connects us all up."

"O-kay…"

"It'll make sense eventually," He assured her. "We also have a Forger, that's Eames, who can be someone else in a dream. I'm the Point Man, which means I cover the Extractor, look out for details, and take care of everything so the Extractor can focus."

There was a very pregnant pause. Arthur was very obviously waiting for her to ask another question- Rie racked her brains for the appropriate thing to say, but nothing came to mind.

"Your job," He said finally, slightly disappointed when her response wasn't quite as Ariadne-like as he'd expected, "is the Extractor."

There was another pause, but Rie was quick to snap at the chance to redeem herself. (That, and she was curious). "What's an Extractor?"

"The Architect will design a dream, and teach it to the dreamer. The Dreamer is kind of the setting of the story- he's "in charge" of the dream- he makes sure it doesn't collapse, gets built properly, and stays there drawing off projections. The Subject- or person we're extracting from, will fill that set with Projections- parts of their subconscious that they _project_ into the dream. The Projections will become suspicious if they realize they're dreaming- so my job is to take care of them. But the Subject also puts his secrets into the dream- usually the Architect will design a safe or a vault, and when the Subject is filling the dream he automatically puts the secrets in there. Your job is to go through the maze, find the safe, break it open, and discover the secrets inside."

"Like a secret agent?" She asked excitedly. Arthur nodded, pleased at how fast she picked up, but winced. There was that damn over enthusiasm again.

"Right. So we're going to go under again, and you're going to try and find the safe that's filled with your secrets." He stood up and walked over to the PASIV, scooping it off the counter and carefully placing it on the floor between them. "Eames will move this when he gets back- we usually don't put the PASIV on the floor, but I need to be able to reach it." He reinserted the needle into his easily accessible wrist, smiling reassuringly at Rie when she winced in empathy. "After a while, you barely feel it."

"Like a heroin addict?"

"A bit more high class, but yes. Before we go under- do you understand all of this?"

"I think so," She said hesitantly. "I go in and find the secrets. You protect me, Eames…does something, and we have a Chemist who makes chemicals and an architect who made the map for where we go. Right?"

Arthur realized with a sinking heart she was missing the obvious. He sat back down on the lawn chair and leaned back, putting an arm behind his head.

"Remember how I said this was illegal?" He asked darkly.

"What? Oh…right." He glanced over. Rie looked confused, then sheepish. "I should probably ask why, right?"

"It's not obvious to you?" Arthur asked dryly, looking sardonically at the ceiling now. Rie made a face and blushed.

"No," She squeaked, in apparent shame. "I'm sorry, but I don't really know anything about this."

His voice was much sharper and harsher than he had wanted it to be. "We're hired by companies to break into a person's mind and steal from them- it's illegal, and immoral. We're breaking the law, invading privacy, and going into the one place you should be safe."

"But…but we get to dream, right?" Rie seemed very hesitant to voice this thought out loud, as if it were a taboo thing to say. Arthur looked back over at her, eyebrows raised.

"You want to dream that bad?"

"Is that wrong?" She asked quickly. He smirked and leant over to deploy the button.

"On the contrary- you've discovered the very reason we do this."

"Good," She said fervently, and then yawned. "Jesus, this stuff goes fast."

Arthur closed his eyes sleepily, relaxing. "Just relax," He instructed smoothly, calmly. Rie felt like she was floating away on a cloud or something, his velvety voice crooning to her. She sighed and collapsed into herself, curling into the chair, lazily drifting asleep.


End file.
